


Into the Wild Pale Yonder

by TellCosy



Category: Disco Elysium (Video Game)
Genre: Addiction recovery, Alcoholism, And the deaths are "deaths", Bisexual Harry Du Bois, Case Work, Depression, Drug Use, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Game-Typical Homophobia, Game-Typical Racism, Harry Chapters Written in Game's Style, Harry and Kim are Roommates, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mystery, New Harry Skills, POV Alternating, Pre-OT3, Slow Burn, Smoking, Suicidal Thoughts, Supra-natural Happenings, The Skills Never Stop Talking, The deaths are not the ships, There will be a happy ending, We Don't Demonise Addicts in This House, drug references, murders, prescription medications
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-24
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:07:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 113,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26634838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TellCosy/pseuds/TellCosy
Summary: Recovery does not end after a single week without a drink. Or a month.Or even the end of the world.Luckily, Lieutenant Kim Kitsuragi is here to support Harry through personal crisis, unsolvable murders, and beyond.
Relationships: Harry Du Bois/Kim Kitsuragi, Pre-Harry Du Bois/Kim Kitsuragi/Jean Vicquemare
Comments: 150
Kudos: 187





	1. Home

Night falls over the city of Revachol like a mother tucking her children to sleep, soft and slow. The piercing cries of skuas and gulls are replaced with the chirring of nightjars and warblers calling out from the marsh fog. The road leading away from Martinaise is slick with black ice, barely glinting off twin pools of halogen light. They are cast by one Coupris Kineema, a machine so sleek and loved that it whispers along the highway like a snake in the grass. 

The Kineema belongs to Lieutenant Kim Kitsuragi and he has made this journey roughly 162 times since the strike began at the harbour. The roads back to Faubourg from around the diversion are long and at times treacherous, but they have become second nature to him by now. He no longer grips the wheel hard enough to make his knuckles white under the pressure, unsure if the blur he is driving towards is a pothole or roadkill. 

It is always a pothole. 

And he always avoids them.

No longer consciously, of course, because after 162 back-and-forths at least, these back roads might as well be his home. He certainly feels more at home on them than in the apartment he is heading towards, with the Kineema rumbling all around him.

He lives for these hours of the day despite the extra commute tacked on to his usual journey. The hours he is alone with his thoughts, quiet and safe and in control. His body responds to the Kineema as though it is a cat curled up on his lap, purrs rattling his bones and solid weight under his hands. Each muscle relaxes one by one until he is ready to drop straight into bed and forget what he has seen, what has been said, what he has had to do for everyone’s sake. 

He never does. He doesn’t have the luxury of sleeping more than a few hours a night, the rest of the hours required for recording his thoughts down into his notebooks and getting his meals ready for the next day while the radio plays quietly beside him. Another drama for him to chuckle over. Another weather report for him to make note of. The chiming and blink-blink-blink of the police radio that he absolutely has to switch off before bed or risk it entering his dreams.

The nights he forgets are never restful and he underperforms the following day, much to the delight of all his colleagues. 

But tonight, he will not forget.

Tonight, he has an itemised list in his head repeating like a mantra underneath the pulsing beats of SpeedFreaks FM.

Tonight, his hands flex on the wheel as he resists the urge to grip it harder.

Tonight, the road home is long and dark and lonesome and Harrier Du Bois is pressed tight up against his side, smelling of burnt sugar and cum.

 _Tonight_ , he has many other things to think about— 

> WORK — Write down the report for this case, doing his best to explain the utterly _insane_ conclusion they have come to
> 
> WORK — Steel himself for the response he will receive at his precinct when he turns in the report
> 
> HOME — Water his spider plant
> 
> WORK — Steel himself for the response he will receive at his precinct when he tells them he wishes to be transferred to Precinct 41
> 
> GROCERY — Take out the old food that has gone bad while he was gone and get more
> 
> WORK — Steel himself for the response he will receive at Precinct 41 when he requests to be transferred there
> 
> ERRAND — Pick up the medication he has requested and find a place to store it
> 
> ~~PERSONAL~~ ??? — _Somehow_ find the words he needs to say to Harry to explain why he is very clearly heading to his house before he wakes up

—and absolutely none of them include asking the Lieutenant Double-Yefreitor if he shook Lena and Morell’s hand while smelling of cum. Or why he smells like it in the first place. 

Because he’s had sex at some point in the last seven days, would be the obvious answer here, but Kim has been with him for 70% of those hours and has no idea how he would have managed to find someone interested in having sex with him.

Not that he doesn’t have a surprising charm to him, but Harry Du Bois is not a man who is...well. Kim has watched him closely for the last week and though he seems to be a good man—shockingly so, considering his precinct and obvious, overwhelming trauma—he is very much unwell. Anyone can see it at a glance, from the swollen face to the hunch of his shoulders to the unfathomably deep well of sadness in his eyes that even retrograde amnesia cannot erase.

Maybe Klaasje would have slept with him.

Hm. That’s a consideration. She _had_ slept with Lely, who was only a bit younger than Harry. Perhaps a little healthier, but if her report of their “partying” was any indication of his tolerance to inebriation, it was unlikely. When they had spoken to her, she had seemed to like Harry. Perhaps he had charmed her at some point after Kim had gone to sleep.

> ~~GROCERY — Pick up condoms for Harry just in case~~

He’s not going to do that. 

He’s going to make it clear that he won’t appreciate Harry bringing someone back to the apartment and then he won’t have to put himself through the mortification of reminding a grown man that he shouldn’t be having unprotected sex.

> ~~PERSONAL~~ ??? — Go over the suicide prevention tips in the RCM handbook again 

For the love of god. Just because Harry smells like _yet another_ bodily fluid—out of the many that he has expelled or been exposed to in the course of the week—doesn’t mean that he is having self-destructive, unprotected sex. 

For all he knows, he _does_ use protection.

Or maybe he had just masturbated.

That’s...probably it. Although he has to admit that it’s still a surprise that Harry’s—that he can still— 

The fact that he can’t bring himself to even think about Harry’s assumed impotence is perhaps good enough reason to _stop_ thinking about it. It’s not like it’s important to whether or not he’ll offer his help. He’s going to do that just as soon as Harry wakes up.

Which, speaking of, he should probably turn the radio off. 

Not because he’s stalling but because it’s the considerate thing to do. He knows how little sleep Harry has had. The walls of the Whirling are not so thick that he hasn’t heard his endless shifting and sighing and the muffled sobs that absolutely did _not_ make him feel like he should go through their shared bathroom and hold him until he can sleep without being haunted by whatever it is that is tearing him apart.

Kim has seen men cope in much worse ways. Much worse. There is still strength in Harry; still hope, despite everything. He just needs…

( _My partner, Kim. This is dedicated to my partner, Kim. Kim, what do you think about this? We got them, Kim! What would you call it, Kim?_ )

...support. Structure. Safety. 

He just needs a little help. 

Unfortunately, the moment that Kim switches the radio off, Harry startles awake, dragging in a breath that shudders. Kim doesn’t look over. It’s difficult enough, being in such close quarters with—with anyone, he supposes, but especially Harry, who seems to fill up the space around him no matter where he goes. Harder still to look him in the eye in the dark, when Harry seems at his most vulnerable. Like only half of him is present and the other half is elsewhere; perhaps listening in to those voices he talks about. 

There are some things in life that Kim has always assumed would be constant. The colour of the sky. The capability for violence that lies within the hearts of men. The capability for good. The eternal deficit that the RCM runs under. 

The fact that giant stick insects do not exist.

And that hearing voices that lead someone to discovering such a creature surely means they are unstable. 

He’s not sure if he has fully processed the fact that things like the phasmid exist. That while Harry is undeniably unstable, it isn’t the voices he hears that makes him so. 

Or maybe they are, if indirectly. Maybe it’s difficult to know things that other people don’t and have no explanation for why you do. That doesn’t make you sound even more drunk than you are, at least. 

Maybe Kim would have taken up drinking too, if no one had ever believed him.

“Wha—why’d the music stop?” Harry’s voice is slow, full of sleep. Rougher than usual, but not in annoyance. Just confusion.

“Sorry for waking you. I thought it might be disturbing you, so I turned it off.”

Harry grunts and falls silent for long enough that Kim chances a glance over as they glide around a tight corner much faster than is strictly safe. Harry’s chin has met his chest again, his head resting against the reinforced glass window. His eyes are shut, mouth slack. Breath slow and steady. His hands are tucked underneath his arms like a child who refuses to admit that they’re cold out of some misplaced pride. 

The thought almost makes Kim smile. He wonders how many children Harry-the-High-School-Gym-Teacher has seen do the exact same thing after forcing them onto the track in winter weather. 

Kim flicks the switch for the heater. Immediately, warm air circulates the tiny cabin, heating it up so efficiently that he has to push up the sleeves of his jacket. He doesn’t feel the cold as strongly as Harry does, but then again, he isn’t going through detox. 

Though his fingers _have_ begun to itch for his cigarettes.

“S’nice,” Harry mutters suddenly, startling him. He glances over again, but Harry’s eyes are still closed. Sleep-talking?

He waffles for a moment, but decides to respond on the off-chance that he wasn’t. “What is?” he asks softly, barely louder than a whisper just in case he wakes him again.

There is a brief silence, but then, “This. Warm. You drive like a rocking...cradle. Music was good.” Harry shifts, hands dropping down to his thighs and arm pressing closer to Kim’s. It feels hot, even from underneath his jacket. Kim makes a note to check Harry’s temperature once they get back. There might be infection still growing in his wound; god knows that room wasn’t the most sterile place to operate. 

“I’m surprised you fell asleep through it, actually.”

“I think it was loud enough that it drowned out all those assholes in my head,” Harry mutters before stiffening and beginning a very obvious attempt to cover for himself. “Uh. I mean. The music—probably—”

“Drowned out the voices, yes,” Kim says with the barest smile. It won’t do to begin in a way that he doesn’t mean to go on. Honesty is important in situations like this; from both sides, not just Harry. 

Besides, it _isn’t_ a surprise. Does Harry think that after everything, Kim can possibly doubt the validity of it?

He can almost hear Harry swallow, he is fidgeting so nervously beside him. “That doesn’t bother you?”

Kim flexes his fingers on the wheel again, his gloves creaking against the leather. “There is a three meter tall stick insect somewhere off the coast of Martinaise. Not much else can get weirder than that.”

Harry barks out a laugh and Kim shoves away the pleasant warmth that pools in his stomach at the sound. It’s ridiculous that even something so small can get under his skin. It’s just a laugh.

“Shit, I still can’t believe it’s real. It’s _real_ , Kim!”

“It’s real,” he agrees, ignoring the now-familiar buzzing along his spine whenever Harry says his name. Another unhelpful reaction to something that others have no trouble with at all. There is no reason to make a big deal of someone using his name, but his body refuses to listen to _reason_. 

Not for long, he supposes. It will soon have to become numb to the experience or he will never get anything done. Unless the transfer request falls through. Or Harry starts calling him Lieutenant Kitsuragi like everyone else.

Unlikely.

“Fuck, am I glad you got that picture,” Harry says, shaking his head. “I don’t know how I would’ve explained any of this to those guys without it.”

“Those _guys_ ,” Kim says flatly. 

“Yeah, the cops—other cops,” he corrects himself, drumming a beat on his knee. Kim recognises a nervous tic when he sees one and decides not to push it further. But then Harry takes the option away from him after a few moments of tense silence, bursting out with, “Do you really think that guy was my _partner_?”

Kim weighs the meaning of the words in his head, his lips curling around his teeth. “Satellite-Officer Vicquemare? Yes. He is assuredly your partner.”

A lungful of air puffs out of Harry, then, smelling of the milk tea and sugar cookies Lena fed them. “What did you…?” 

Kim waits for him to gather his thoughts, focusing on the road instead.

“What do you think of him?”

He has to choose his words carefully here. “His record is nearly as impressive as yours. There must be a reason why Captain Pryce trusted him to be your partner.”

That gets another laugh from him, though this one is less amused and more self-effacing. “Guess it can’t be easy to work with an _experimental_ cop, huh?” 

“I haven’t found it particularly difficult,” he says, his voice going even flatter than before. He is annoyed with himself; Harry will assume he is upset with him now.

“So your partner is also experimental?”

Kim isn’t stupid. He knows that Harry is spoiling for information about him. For something personal so he can lay out all the evidence in front of him and decide what kind of a person Kim is. Like everyone else they have met in the past week (whether or not they were related to the case), Harry is trying to can-open him.

He doesn’t mind. He didn’t mind even when he tried it during the case, but he quickly figured out that Harry works best when he has someone to keep him on track.

Kim’s personal life is decidedly not _on track_. Not for anything. 

Because really, he doesn’t have much of one, and so it is never relevant.

But they are off the case now and it isn’t like he can’t find the information elsewhere if he really wants to know, so, “I don’t have a partner.”

Kim can feel the confusion radiating off of Harry in waves. _What kind of a cop doesn’t have a partner?_ he is thinking. _Especially one that can’t even_ see _._

“What the hell? Why haven’t they given you a partner?” bursts from Harry when he can no longer keep it inside. Kim can see him looking over at him out of his periphery, but he is even blurrier than the parts he can see through his glasses. Just vague shapes and halogen-tinted colours. 

“They have tried,” is all he can think to say to that.

“But you’re—” 

_A binoclard. Seolite. Unempathetic. Inflexible. Too dry. Boring._

“ _—good_.”

Kim has an incredible amount of restraint he has built up over the years. Fifteen years of service in the Juvenile Crimes Unit forced on him has gifted him with the ability to hold his emotions in check. It was the only reason he stayed sane when he was a thirty-year-old man surrounded by snickering teens. 

With anyone else, one week would be enough for him to understand someone well enough to expect everything they might say. 

But Harrier Du Bois is a new sort of man and the only reason Kim has managed to keep his cool in the face of his constant, sudden, direct honesty is sheer willpower alone.

His breath still catches before he can force it back out.

“Thank you,” he says, proud of how steady his voice is. “It has nothing to do with my performance, though. I simply work better alone.”

“But we worked great together,” Harry says plainly, as though it is as easy as that.

 _Best assigned short stints with a rotation of partners. Has not successfully built rapport with any assigned partners, barring his first. Situation to be reviewed biannually on Captain’s request._

“We did,” he agrees, against his better judgement.

“Solved the hell out of that case.”

The corner of Kim’s mouth twitches up. “Blew it wide open.”

“Sky high!”

“At least,” Kim says, smiling for real now, “three meters high.”

Harry’s laugh booms in the carriage, deep and scratchy, as Kim avoids one of the largest potholes along this stretch of highway. A frog’s croak emerges from somewhere in the distance, woken too soon by the unusual stretch of warm weather. Harry scrubs at his face, still chuckling, before going completely still.

“Something wrong?” Kim asks, the lights of the suburb emerging from behind the horizon. He is running out of time to explain himself, but perhaps he doesn’t have to. Perhaps Harry will just go along with it.

“My hands smell like cum.”

It is Kim’s turn to choke back a laugh, clearing his throat loudly to hold it in. “Don’t worry. You can wash it off at home.”

“It’s not—I didn’t—I don’t have _cum_ on my hands, Kim!”

Kim just quirks an eyebrow.

“I don’t! Look!” Harry insists, shoving one of his hands over to Kim’s side of the carriage. He grunts, correcting his accidental swerve before glancing down to see that Harry’s hands are, indeed, clean. At least from what his tired eyes can make out. They simply smell of cum and burnt sugar and Kim is absolutely mortified that it makes his mouth water inexplicably.

He doesn’t even _like_ the taste of— 

That thought is not going to conclude if he has anything to say about it. 

He clears his throat again. “I see. Very clean.”

Harry retracts his hand, seemingly placated, and gives a grunt of confusion, staring down at his hands. “Although...huh.”

“Hm?”

Nothing in the world could have prepared him for Harry saying, “Wonder if it’s the phasmid’s cum.”

He splutters, looking over to see Harry watching him with a glint in his eye. “What do you think you were doing with that insect?”

“I dunno, maybe when I was rubbing its leg it was, y’know…”

“It reproduces _asexually_ , Harry.” The words of the scientist come back to him suddenly, like the shuddering click of a salt lamp. “Those are probably just its pheromones.”

“Hey, just because it doesn’t make _babies_ with it doesn’t mean it can’t get its rocks off,” Harry says, clicking his tongue. “Women don’t make children by themselves but they can still—”

Kim waits for him to finish his thought, barely suppressing the laugh that is bubbling up through his chest. But when Harry never continues, he raises his brows and glances over to see him staring at him with an unreadable expression. 

Kim doesn’t like unreadable expressions.

“What is it?” he asks nervously, hands gripping the wheel tight as they sail past the industrial warehouses at the limit of his neighborhood, motor kicking behind him as he eases off the pedal.

Harry is silent for another few moments until, “You called me Harry.”

Oh, is that all?

“I thought we’d established quite firmly that it is your name.”

“You don’t usually call me Harry.”

“We have only known each other while on a case,” he explains. “It isn’t so unusual to be more casual outside of work.”

Harry does the thing where he goes very quiet and still that always happens before he’s about to say something that is either very eerie or ridiculous, or both.

And sure enough, “You don’t call any of your other partners by their first name.”

Kim wishes dearly that he could know _how_ those voices of Harry’s work. It would go a long way towards making sure he is never surprised by them again. As it is, he is left floundering a bit because of course Harry is correct, but how in the _hell_ does he know that? Lucky guess? Inter-precinct gossip that he is dredging up from behind the wall of amnesia?

Kim doesn’t have the capacity to wonder about what else it might be.

Or maybe he does and he just doesn’t want to.

“Khm...yes, well. None of _them_ call _me_ by my first name, either.”

“Why not?” the response comes instantly, as though Harry is an eager dog about to climb a tree just to reach the bird in the low-hanging branch. 

Kim is, frankly, a little out of his depth here. He is used to being asked personal questions—teenaged delinquents know how to wield them with a ferocity against peers and strangers alike. Anyone who makes them feel vulnerable. But the questions they ask are all the same and always have been. Pointed remarks about his “species,” his eyes, his hairline, his clothes, his sexuality. Anything surface level that might get a reaction out of him. 

And really, most of the adults he deals with never grow out of that line of questioning. They think they can catch him off guard with open hostility, but are pitifully unaware of how many times a day Kim hears the same things directed at him. They all think they are the first to say it.

Harry does not do this.

Harry asks questions about _him_. About what he likes, what he thinks, how he feels.

And Kim has begun to feel a little bit unnerved by it.

But he is a _professional_ , if nothing else, and he will not let it show, even if it kills him. 

“Because none of them ever cared to use it,” he says tersely, glad that the bitterness that wells up like thick bile doesn’t come through his voice. “There is nothing more to it.”

Harry is quiet again, but not in the same tense, loaded way as before. When he speaks, his voice is thoughtful. “You really don’t like talking about yourself.”

Kim has nothing to say to that. It’s true. Harry knows it is. It’s practically rhetorical.

“If I tell you a secret about myself, will you tell me one of yours?”

_If I bark at you, will you sing for me?_

Kim has the horribly inappropriate urge to laugh. It isn’t even funny. He isn’t a bird and Harry isn’t a dog. He’s just tired after— _everything_.

So instead, he just glances over quickly and says, “You didn’t even know your name until a few days ago and you already have a secret?”

Kim catches the sheepish smile on Harry’s face before his eyes go back to the boxy, broken roads of inner Faubourg studded with dim and flickering salt lamps that stand like little soldiers. 

“I, uh, I don’t know where I live.”

Kim’s lip twitches. Hardly a secret, a total amnesiac not knowing where he lived before he lost his memory. Harry must figure as much, though, because he continues, his voice small in the still night.

“I thought I’d remembered, but it’s not where I live now. It’s where I used to live. Before.”

Before Dora Ingerlund left him, is what he is saying underneath his words. 

An actual secret, then, and once again Kim doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t have much experience with people opening up to him willingly.

“I’ve been trying to figure out how to tell you.”

Kim lets out a slow breath. Good. There. That’s his opening. Thank you very much, Harry. “Don’t worry about it. We are already close to home—to my house. You can stay there if there isn’t anywhere else.”

“There isn’t.”

Something clicks into place in Kim’s mind, satisfyingly complete. One part down. “Then it’s settled.”

The cracked and leaning tenements that line the streets begin to thin out into smaller complexes that stand a little more sure on their feet, a little more cared for. Children play in the collective parks filled with rusted equipment, paint chipping off onto their hands as they swing themselves around and around. Mothers stand in the doorways, robes hanging off of their shoulder and cigarettes dangling from their lips. Some of them are smiling at the children’s play. Some of them look annoyed. Kim thinks the same thought he thinks every night he passes them by: where would he fall on that line? Would he have been happy to have a child? Would he have hated it?

Perhaps the fact that he is unsure is reason enough for him to never find out. 

“Are you sure?”

Kim has to take a moment to remember what Harry is asking, but nods once he does. “I have the space. It might not be _very_ comfortable, but I doubt it will be worse than what you’ve left behind in Martinaise.”

“Hey, that shack was comfortable.”

“I’m sure it was,” he says, swallowing down the memory of worry that had plagued him every step he’d taken away from that shack, knowing that Harry was going to be alone for hours with a razor and a loaded gun. He had tried so hard not to care. 

He is still trying, he supposes. 

He has never found it easy to open up. To make himself vulnerable even in small ways.

And maybe that is why he is sweating as they pull into the garage he has rented out that sits across the street from the house he sleeps in but doesn’t live. Why his hands grip the wheel hard enough to make his knuckles creak as he switches off the engine but leaves the cabin light on. Why his throat is suddenly so dry.

Why, when it comes to the most important moment, the only thing he can think to say is, “You can stay as long as you need. I want to...I want to help you.”

He forces himself to look over at Harry; into his eyes. His face swims in his vision before the lines settle, become the tired, alcohol-damaged face that he has grown unreasonably fond of in a single week. Tension grows between them, slow and strong. Like a safety harness tied to a drowning man, taut with the weight of his words. Kim forces himself to see every line of pain that marks that face and acknowledge that maybe this man will not succeed, even with help. That maybe his partner knows something about him that no one else does. That Kim doesn’t really know Harry at all. 

That maybe his own instinct to help him will only get him in trouble, too.

And then he lets out a breath and Harry is blinking and the tension eases in the cabin an inch at a time. The harness takes.

The only thing to do now is swim for shore.

“That—that sounds great. Thank you,” Harry mumbles, sudden splotches of red creeping up into his neck. He covers it up with a hand and clears his throat loudly, his face twitching slightly as he obviously fights against the urge to wear that smile he wore at the beginning of the case. The one that screamed ‘I am deeply uncomfortable in my own body and would rather not be inside of it anymore.’

“No need to thank me,” Kim says, shaking off the discomfort as best as he can. “Everyone deserves a second chance.”

“What if I’ve had a second chance and I fucked that up already, though?”

Kim looks him dead in the eye and says without hesitation, “Then you take the next chance you’re given and you do your best with it.”

And Harry has nothing to say to that. His throat works silently, but no words come. So Kim just nods and switches off the overhead light and steps out of the Kineema, bending down to grab the duffle bag of clothes and various items that Harry has scavenged from Martinaise. They need a good wash, but it is a start. It is good that he is already forming attachments to them; care of one’s appearance is one of the first things to go in suicidal individuals.

_Yes, Kim. Keep thinking of it in clinical terms and maybe you will hold yourself together, too._

He doesn’t need unhelpful thoughts. He has too much else to take care of.

But at least he has crossed one thing off the list.

> ~~PERSONAL ??? Help Harry find a place to stay~~

Now he just has to write a damn good report and get himself ready for the spectacle that his transfer request will cause. And talk to Harry about the medicine. And buy groceries. And maybe a second set of bedding, if he is going to stay for a while. And maybe a— 

“Kim?”

Kim glances over as they walk up the long, crooked path towards the faded red brick building his apartment is in. Harry’s shoulders are slumped and his brows are drawn together and it is clear that he is extremely reluctant to ask,

“How am I going to get to work tomorrow?”

Kim hitches the duffle higher on his shoulder and pushes his sliding glasses back up his nose. “There are trolleys that run from down the road to Central Jamrock. There is one that stops nearby Precinct 41. I will give you a map and write down what stop to ring the bell at.”

“But you’re already—”

“I offered my help,” he says, leaving no room for discussion. He doesn’t want to hear Harry’s reasons why he should only offer him the bare minimum. He has heard quite enough of that in their time at Martinaise. 

Surprisingly, Harry accepts it without question, though he does heave an enormous sigh and run his hands through his hair, wincing at the grease. When he sees that Kim is watching, he shakes his head and asks, “Is it going to get better?”

Kim knows with a sudden clarity that he will do everything in his power to ease the struggle he hears in those words, in that defeated voice. 

But he just smiles and claps Harry on the shoulder as they walk up the sagging stairs together, saying, “One day at a time, Harry. We will take it one day at a time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is in progress and will be updated as I finish each chapter, included any tags I may have forgotten.
> 
> Next up: Harry is going through it.
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/TellCosy)/[tumblr](https://tellcosy.tumblr.com)


	2. The New Guys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry is still learning how to live without a drink in his hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for giving this fic a chance, I'm absolutely over the moon!
> 
> So if any of you speak French, it will probably soon become clear that I do NOT speak it and I apologise for any mistakes. I had to try, at least.
> 
> Also, I will include a description of the new skills in the next chapter if any of you would like them. <3

SPARTAN ROOM — You are sitting in Ptolemy Pryce’s office, captain of Precinct 41—your precinct. It is severe. Decorated only with medals, awards, and bookshelves filled to the brim with imposing law manuals, it serves as a reminder that the captain is a serious man. 

Not that you remember him, of course, so there is nothing there to be reminded of. You’re just guessing that that is what he is going for, considering he wears a permanent scowl on his face. You can’t tell how old he is—the scowl and bald head take care of any clues that may give that away, leaving you with a vague sense that he is timeless. Immortal.

A god amongst cops.

PTOLEMY PRYCE — “Alright Harry, looks like all your paperwork is in order here. Just need your scribble on the bottom and we’ll let you get back home to heal. The lazareth has sent the medication you requested so you don’t have to go all the way down.” The captain quirks a knowing smile at you, still writing even though his eyes aren’t on the page.

Why is that so intimidating?

SAVOIR FAIRE [Easy: Success] — He has done this before. A thousand times. Maybe a million. He doesn’t have to look at the page anymore because it’s just muscle memory now. He’s *competent*. 

VOLITION [Challenging: Success] — And you’re *not*? Just because you lost your memory doesn’t mean you didn’t get the job done.

AUTHORITY [Challenging: Success] — There is a reason this man trusts you. He knows you could have taken his job if you didn’t respect him so much. *Twice.*

> **1.- “Wait, what medication?”**
> 
> 2.- “Is it really okay if I take a week off after what I did?”
> 
> 3.- “Why do you keep trying to get me to take your job?”
> 
> 4.- Bring up the topic of Kim’s transfer. [Proceed.]

PTOLEMY PRYCE — “The medication you requested.” The captain’s mouth twitches up like he’s told a joke. “I don’t know anything more than that.”

ESPRIT DE CORPS [Legendary: Success] — Deep in the heart of Precinct 57, dr Thibault LeMaire adjusts his glasses, frowning down at a prescription request form. He doesn’t understand why Lieutenant Kim Kitsuragi has requested these particular drugs, but he trusts him enough to have filled the order without question. It’s probably none of his business, but it is still troubling.

> 1.- “Is it really okay if I take a week off after what I did?”
> 
> **2.- “Why do you keep trying to get me to take your job?”**
> 
> 3.- Bring up the topic of Kim’s transfer. [Proceed.]

PTOLEMY PRYCE — The captain seems genuinely confused by your question, his hand resting still on the table. “I’m not sure I follow.”

> **1.- “Four months ago, you tried to promote me to captain. For the second time.”**
> 
> 2.- “Nevermind. Forget I said anything.”

PTOLEMY PRYCE — Slowly, as if trying to translate your words from another language, the captain blinks, then shakes his head, chuckling. “I didn’t really believe it when they told me, but it’s true, isn’t it? Your memory is gone.”

> **1.- [Composure - Challenging 12] “Yes, sir, total retrograde amnesia. Some things are coming back, but it’s slow going.”**
> 
> 2.- “Yeah, they ain’t kiddin’. It’s gone. Allll gone.”
> 
> 3.- “Actually, I faked the whole thing. I just *wanted* them to think I forgot it all. It was my plan all along and it *worked*.”
> 
> 4.- Just nod.

**CHECK SUCCESS**

YOU — “Yes, sir, total retrograde amnesia. Some things are coming back, but it’s slow going.” Miraculously, you manage to keep your voice from shaking in front of your boss. 

Your shit has achieved maximum *togetherness*.

AUTHORITY [Formidable: Failure] — If your shit is actually in “maximum togetherness,” you shouldn’t have to psych yourself up like that.

PTOLEMY PRYCE — The captain nods thoughtfully. “Yes, Special Consultant Heidelstam has sent his preliminary report over, which came as a surprise, considering I don’t remember asking for one.” There is a flash of anger deep within the captain’s dark eyes that disappears as soon as it comes.

EMPATHY [Medium: Success] — He doesn’t appreciate secrets in the precinct. Secrets are unpredictable and he likes his soldiers all in a row.

PTOLEMY PRYCE — “To answer your question: *I* wasn’t the one who sent the promotion paperwork through. Both times, it came through Chief Inspector Hancock.” His eyebrows draw together. “You may not remember yourself, Harry, but I do. I know who you are.” 

INLAND EMPIRE [Trival: Success] — Why did he say it like that? Like you’re more than just one of his subordinates. Is there something *wrong* with you? Something that makes them keep tabs on you?

PTOLEMY PRYCE — The captain’s frown eases off, replaced with a smile that is still tight around the edges. “In any case, just let me know if there’s anything we can do to help you. I’ll answer any questions you might have to the best of my ability.” He goes back to writing again. “We want you back out there as soon as possible.”

> **1.- “Is it really okay if I take a week off after what I did?”**
> 
> **__** _2.- “Why do you keep trying to get me to take your job?”_
> 
> 3.- I have some questions I’d like to ask.
> 
> 4.- Bring up the topic of Kim’s transfer. [Proceed.]

PTOLEMY PRYCE — The captain laughs, the sound swallowed up instantly by the dark wood office. “What did you expect? To get fired?”

RHETORIC [Easy: Success] — Do *not* admit that that is exactly what you expected.

> 1.- [Drama - Medium 10] “Of *course* not! I always knew that it would cost more to replace me than the MC I drove into the sea! Ha-ha!” (Lie.)
> 
> **2.- Laugh nervously.**

PTOLEMY PRYCE — The captain doesn’t seem to notice your discomfort. He is shaking his head and already speaking again, mostly to himself. “If we replaced every officer who lost his shit on a murder case, we’d run through the entire city by the end of the year.” 

He sighs. “Yes, Lieutenant. It is perfectly fine that you take mandatory time off to heal from your gunshot wound and recover from the firefight.”

> _1.- “Is it really okay if I take a week off after what I did?”_
> 
> _2.- “Why do you keep trying to get me to take your job?”_
> 
> 3.- I have some questions I’d like to ask.
> 
> **4.- Bring up the topic of Kim’s transfer. [Proceed.]**

YOU — Trying to ignore the sweat gathering on your palms like mildew in an old house, you rustle up a little bit of the pride that you’ve earned from solving the case and ask the question you came here for in the first place. 

“Captain Pryce. Has there been any word yet about K—Lieutenant Kitsuragi?”

PTOLEMY PRYCE — The captain’s eyes meet yours, sudden enough that it sends a bolt of alarm through you. 

HALF-LIGHT [Easy: Success] — He knows. He knows why you’re asking. Take it back and get out of there *now*.

VOLITION [Medium: Success] — You are *not* going to run away. You are going to stay and say what you need to say to get what you want.

PTOLEMY PRYCE — “If you’re referring to Lieutenant Kitsuragi’s transfer request, then yes. I have received notification of his intent.”

RHETORIC [Challenging: Failure] — What does that *mean*? Does that mean he’s going to refuse it?

HALF-LIGHT [Easy: Success] — That’s exactly what it means! He’s going to refuse Kim’s request and you’re going to have to learn how to do this shit again without him! 

COMPOSURE [Challenging: Success] — He’s probably right about that, but it doesn’t mean you have to puke in the middle of your boss’s office. You’re just going to wait until you get home to do that.

HALF-LIGHT [Easy: Success] — You mean back to *Kim’s* home? The home you’ll have to move out of somehow even though you barely have enough reál to take the trolley back to it!!

LOGIC [Medium: Success] — *Or* you could just ask him if he’s going to approve it.

DRAMA [Challenging: Failure] — And just *give away* your position, sire?! Is that *really* how you want to start off again? By being *predictable*?

LOGIC [Challenging: Failure] — ?????????

VOLITION [Challenging: Success] — Alright, this is getting out of hand. You *know* what you want to ask. You aren’t going to leave until you ask it. What’s the worst that could happen?

HALF-LIGHT [Easy: Success] — DEATH.

ENDURANCE [Medium: Success] — Don’t worry. I got you. You’re not going to die from this.

PAIN THRESHOLD [Medium: Success] — It might hurt if he says no, but you’ve never been shy about getting hurt, have you?

VOLITION [Medium: Success] — And just *think* about how much better you’ll feel if he says yes.

HABITUS [Easy: Success] — You *need* Kim. Don’t leave the room until he says yes.

REACTION SPEED [Easy: Success] — Who the *fuck* is that?

PTOLEMY PRYCE — The captain is watching you, brow lowered with concern. “Harry? Are you okay? You just went very quiet and started sweating. Do you need me to call the doctor?”

AUTHORITY [Challenging: Success] — Stop panicking and just SPIT IT OUT.

> **1.- “I want to be Lieutenant Kitsuragi’s partner.”**
> 
> 2.- “I want Lieutenant Kitsuragi to be my partner.”

PTOLEMY PRYCE — Silence falls after your sudden declaration, but the captain doesn’t look unhappy; just confused. After a second, the confusion melts away and he sits back in his tall chair, the lights above making his bald head gleam. “I suppose you’ve saved me some time. Request granted provisionally.”

> **1.- “Wait, what do you mean I’ve saved you some time?”**
> 
> 2.- “Provisionally?”
> 
> 3.- Heave a sigh of relief. “Thank you, Captain.” [Proceed.]

PTOLEMY PRYCE — “I was planning on reassigning you anyway. This saves me the trouble of choosing, since you already have a preference.”

> **1.- “Provisionally?”**
> 
> 2.- Heave a sigh of relief. “Thank you, Captain.” [Proceed.]

PTOLEMY PRYCE — The captain nods, gathering up the paperwork and tapping it lightly into place before clipping it together and sliding it into a plastic folder. “It isn’t my decision alone that will decide whether or not the lieutenant is transferred. I’ve already accepted. It’s up to his captain to approve it, now.”

He glances over at you, a sparkle of humour in his eye. “It’s also up to the *lieutenant* to accept your partnership request, of course. ”

> _1.- “Provisionally?”_
> 
> **2.- Heave a sigh of relief. “Thank you, Captain.” [Proceed.]**

PTOLEMY PRYCE — “No need to thank me. As I said, it saves me the trouble.” The captain tucks the blue folder away into a filing cabinet behind him before sliding a folded white paper bag across the desk. It is held closed by a blue-and-white sticker with the RCM insignia on top. 

ENCYCLOPEDIA [Medium: Success] — It is an inter-precinct package, sent through special courier. The couriers are required to undergo confidentiality training before being allowed to handle RCM materials. They are therefore much more reliable than the standard isola-wide mail service, which was privatised by the Coalition and is rife with fraud.

PTOLEMY PRYCE — “I have everything I need now, so unless there’s anything else you’d like to ask me, feel free to get back home.”

> **1.- “Actually, I do have some questions I’d like to ask.”**
> 
> 2.- “I guess I’ll see you in a week.” Take the bag and go. [Leave.]

PTOLEMY PRYCE — The captain nods, waiting patiently for your questions.

> 1.- “Why does the lieutenant have to accept the request as well? Don’t the captains just tell us who our partners are?”
> 
> 2.- “Why were you already planning on reassigning me?”
> 
> **3.- “What will happen to Jean?”**
> 
> 4.- “Don’t you want to ask me about the Insulindian Phasmid?”
> 
> 5.- That’s enough questions for now.

PTOLEMY PRYCE — “Satellite-Officer Vicquemare? If Lieutenant Kitsuragi accepts the partnership, he will be given another partner who will be promoted to lieutenant.”

EMPATHY [Medium: Success] — One who doesn’t seem to bring out the worst in him, is what he means.

> **1.- “Why does the lieutenant have to accept the request as well? Don’t the captains just tell us who our partners are?”**
> 
> 2.- “Why were you already planning on reassigning me?”
> 
> _3.- “What will happen to Jean?”_
> 
> 4.- “Don’t you want to ask me about the Insulindian Phasmid?”
> 
> 5.- That’s enough questions for now.

PTOLEMY PRYCE — “Sure, some captains just assign people as they see fit. But that’s not how we do it here in 41.” 

The captain chuckles wryly, his teeth crooked behind his lips. 

“We got a hell of a caseload to work through every day and if my team isn’t working together because they’d rather partner up with someone else, then that caseload isn’t exactly going to get done, is it?”

> _1.- “Why does the lieutenant have to accept the request as well? Don’t the captains just tell us who our partners are?”_
> 
> **2.- “Why were you already planning on reassigning me?”**
> 
> **__** _3.- “What will happen to Jean?”_
> 
> 4.- “Don’t you want to ask me about the Insulindian Phasmid?”
> 
> 5.- That’s enough questions for now.

PTOLEMY PRYCE — The captain frowns thoughtfully. “You fell into a downward spiral after your second rejected promotion, Lieutenant Du Bois. It wasn’t difficult to see that you were desperate for something to pull you out of it.”

He holds up a hand suddenly.

“And before you ask why Satellite-Officer Vicquemare didn’t help you, I’ll tell you that you’re getting nothing out of me. That’s between the two of you. I don’t have time to gossip.”

> _1.- “Why does the lieutenant have to accept the request as well? Don’t the captains just tell us who our partners are?”_
> 
> _2.- “Why were you already planning on reassigning me?”_
> 
> _3.- “What will happen to Jean?”_
> 
> **4.- “Don’t you want to ask me about the Insulindian Phasmid?”**
> 
> 5.- That’s enough questions for now.

PTOLEMY PRYCE — The captain shrugs. “It was a big bug. What more is there to ask?”

> _1.- “Why does the lieutenant have to accept the request as well? Don’t the captains just tell us who our partners are?”_
> 
> _2.- “Why were you already planning on reassigning me?”_
> 
> _3.- “What will happen to Jean?”_
> 
> _4.- “Don’t you want to ask me about the Insulindian Phasmid?”_
> 
> **5.- That’s enough questions for now.**

PTOLEMY PRYCE — “Alright.”

> _1.- “Actually, I do have some questions I’d like to ask.”_
> 
> **2.- “I guess I’ll see you in a week.” Take the bag and go. [Leave.]**

PTOLEMY PRYCE — “Yes, bright and early on Monday. Rest well, Lieutenant. We don’t want this happening again, hm?” The captain shoots a significant look your way, but leaves it at that.

YOU — After one overenthusiastic nod, you unstick your polyester-covered ass from the uncomfortable bucket seat, hoping it hasn’t left a sweat line behind. You leave quickly just in case it has, your fingers jingling the extra set of house keys you’d found in your locker before you’d marched up to Pryce’s office like your funeral was waiting for you there. 

PERCEPTION (Touch) — The keys are hot, burning a hole in your pocket from the collected body heat. The metal is slightly rusted, as though they have been left out in the rain for days at a time. 

RESILIENCE — Or maybe from your own sweaty hands, tracing the grooves in them dozens and dozens of times. It is soothing, this motion, as though you can map the path of your own existence in the lines cut into thin metal. You probably did this before, too.

REACTION SPEED — Who. Is. That.

YOU — As you step out into the unusually bright March afternoon, the sun washes away the grime you can feel under your skin, inside your head. You can’t remember the precinct—working in it, dressing in it, talking to your coworkers—but some part of you remembers the feelings it dredges up, like a downpour flooding the banks and exposing the bodies in the silt. You can’t remember why the bodies are there. 

They just are, poisoning the wells.

EMPATHY — They are doing their best, the same as you. They are not *corpses*—they are people. People with thoughts and feelings and lives, the same as you.

LOGIC — If anything, *you* are the corpse to *them*.

ANIMA — Not forever. We will get better. For you, because you don’t want to be that type of animal anymore. For us. For them. For him, because he believes you can.

INLAND EMPIRE — Not a corpse in the ocean, a corpse hanging from a dead tree, a corpse with no life to give. Under the ground. Decomposing. Growing. Eaten, used as fuel, and rising up, up, up into the night sky, carried on the wings of birds and insects and leaves.

CONCEPTUALIZATION — A pale phoenix rising from its own ashes. 

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT — Yeah, that’s great, Mr. Phoenix, but before you take off in flight, you’re gonna need some fucking food, ‘cause you’re starving. 

REACTION SPEED — Is anyone else going to mention the new guys? Anyone?

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT — If one of you doesn’t mention a goddamn sandwich in a second— 

YOU — Stomach churning with a sudden ravenous hunger, you take off in a jog towards the trolley station, hoping that Kim will forgive you for eating what will surely be all of his food. You manage to catch one as it’s taking off, hanging off the loose pole at the back with one of your feet tucked around the rail for safety. You watch the sun-backed skyline of broken rooftops flash past, seeming to go by much faster on the way home than on the way in. 

Before you know it, you’re hopping off on the corner of the street that Kim’s tenement is tucked further into, your wound flaring up as you land hard on your feet. Luckily, you are distracted from that pain by all the *other* pains that grumble through your body; not least the itching, crawling holes in your hands that remember the weight of a bottle of booze.

You tuck them both into your pockets, the white paper bag squashing out as you keep it clutched tight in your fist. 

Unfortunately, neither the short walk back to the apartment nor the fact that Kim isn’t waiting for you there alleviates the urge that rests in the dry hollow of your throat. Especially when you see that there isn’t any food in the fridge, either. 

You stare at the empty shelves, cold air blasting your legs even through the dress pants you’d found in your work locker. Your skin tightens, half with goosebumps and half with something else that you don’t want to look at but you know, you *know* you have to.

You need a drink.

Why? Why do you need a drink? What is it about an empty fridge—stale bread—condiments sitting sadly on shelves, all alone—that opens up a pit in your stomach and *screams* for a drink?

ENDURANCE — Because this is you. This is who you are. Or, at least, who you *were*. People eat food, but you weren’t a person. You were just a sinking corpse. A week ago, that’s all. Just a week, you have been above water.

COMPOSURE — Long enough. Long enough to catch your breath. A lot can happen in a week.

AUTHORITY — You could regain your standing, no matter how hard you’ve fallen.

EMPATHY — You can lose everything you’ve ever loved.

INLAND EMPIRE — The whole world can end. All in one week.

VOLITION — Close the fridge, Harry. 

YOU — You close the fridge, fingers numb.

As it swings shut, a piece of paper flutters down to the floor, knocked loose from the magnet that was holding it up. You tap a foot over it before it can slip under the fridge and bend with a groan, spotting your name at the top. Scanning it quickly, you realise you must have missed this second note from Kim when you rushed out the door without eating, having slept in much longer than you should have.

In it, he apologises for the lack of food in the house and promises to come home with dinner, but says that if you get home before he does and are feeling up to it, there is a Frittte nearby that will have some staples. He has left money in the old cat dish beside the oven, in case you don’t have enough.

You glance over at the dish that he indicated, the green eyes of the cat painted on the side almost glowing in the dark of the kitchen, as though it knows the thoughts crossing your mind.

You could take the money and use it to buy a drink.

You have enough left over from Martinaise that you could buy some food with that and use Kim’s money to buy a drink.

A small one.

Just enough to take the edge off.

VOLITION — And what will you do when Kim comes home and sees you with a drink in your hand?

YOU — He doesn’t have to know. You can hide the bottle. 

ELECTROCHEMISTRY — Who *cares* if he knows? He said he wants to help you! How are you ever going to get better if you can’t even think because you’re so thirsty?

YOU — You are frozen, staring into the flat eyes of that cat. 

VOLITION — Take the money. You will need it either way.

ANIMA — It is *his* money. You won’t buy booze with his money.

RESILIENCE — Take the money and buy something for *him*. 

HABITUS — No. Take the money and buy food for the house. Use *your* money and buy him a gift.

EMPATHY — Oh, that’s *good*. Do that. He’ll love that.

REACTION SPEED — “Do that”?! That’s all you have to say? Who the *FUCK* are these new guys?

VOLITION — None of us have anything else to say about it because we *know* who they are, you idiot.

CONCEPTUALIZATION — He has somewhat of a point, though. Do they have to be so *orange*?

REACTION SPEED — YES, EXACTLY! Why are they orange! 

LOGIC — Don’t think about it too much.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY — *I* know why they’re orange.

LOGIC — Don’t.

VOLITION — Seriously, don’t. You aren’t ready for that yet. Just take the money and go.

YOU — Fingers trembling slightly with the effort it takes to not think too hard, you reach over and take the money, the weight of the coins reassuring in your hand. You stare down at them, as though you can gauge what Kim wants just from that alone. After a moment where the only sound in the room is the whine of the fridge, though, you let out a deep breath and pocket the coins, heading back out. 

EMPTY CORNER STORE — You quickly find the Frittte, pushing into the corner store that is somehow both stuffy and freezing cold. The cashier—another sullen teen girl who could be the double of the one in Martinaise, for all you know—pays you no attention, ignoring the bellchime. Her breath ghosts in front of her as she hunches over a worn paperback book. There is no one else in the store, despite the fact that it is much larger than its twin on the coast.

It doesn’t take long to locate the tiny section of grocery staples that rests at the back wall. You pile in anything that seems like it’ll keep, your stomach grumbling the whole while. You don’t even know if you like any of this stuff, but you figure it’s likely that with the life you’ve led, you are used to eating things you don’t like the taste of.

You pass by the liquor selection so casually that even *you* don’t think anything of it. Not at all. You’re the coolest, most casual non-alcoholic guy in the world. Just here for the basics.

And then you’re actually *not* thinking about it anymore, because you spot a small white handkerchief with a pattern of swallows dotted all throughout, the deep red of their throats faded into a rusty orange from where it has sat in the sun.

“MONOGRAM AVAILABLE AT COUNTER” says the label on the shelf, and suddenly you *know* that this is what you have to get. You pick it up almost reverently, the cloth so soft in your hand that your eyes burn a little. It’s *perfect*.

ENCYCLOPEDIA [Medium: Success] — The material is satin. Likely cotton satin from mass-produced shirts exported from Graad for the bourgeois, recycled and re-hemmed and resold in places like Frittte as handkerchiefs for the lower class. A *humanitarian effort* for them to feel better about replacing their wardrobes every season.

RESILIENCE — It is both practical and beautiful. You’ve seen him struggle to clean his glasses on his coat so many times now. He can use this instead.

YOU — Whatever the reason, the cloth is like water in your hands and you barely consider the cost as you take up to the counter, requesting Kim’s initials monogrammed into the corner. You stand waiting impatiently with your bag of groceries as the embroidery machine whirrs in the back, imagining the look on Kim’s face when he sees it. You choke on your spit a little when the bored girl returns and tells you what you owe, but thankfully, you have enough.

Not much more than enough, but it’s worth it. 

And besides, you’re pretty lucky when it comes to finding spare change lying around. You’ll get it back sooner or later.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY — Yeah, buddy, it was a *great* idea and all, but what are you gonna do about the booze thing now?

VOLITION — He has a point, though I’m not sure he knows what it is.

YOU — You freeze, coming to a realisation.

DRAMA — He speaks the truth, my liege. If you go back now and he comes home after you, he’s going to assume you procured and hid a little tipple.

LOGIC — He knows how much money you had when you left Martinaise. You didn’t have enough for all this food, the handkerchief, *and* alcohol. He will know this.

HALF-LIGHT — He doesn’t know about the handkerchief though! What if he thinks you bought alcohol and drank it at his *home* and he gives you a look of *disappointment*?

COMPOSURE — All you have to do is stay out until he gets back home, then, right? Simple! No need to panic.

FLÂNEUR — You could always go for a walk. There is so much of this city you haven’t found. And much more you don’t remember finding.

SHIVERS — Yes, a walk. Down the road to the crabgrass covered verge, crossing to the crumbling breezeway between Saint-Dauphine and Canal Street, broken cobblestones giving way to faded mosaics. 

The dying breath of a future that never was. 

A past that smothers the riverside, radiated with foolish hope. 

Walk the studded path down to the river and along the bank until you reach the pier, where a man fishes all alone, his eyes too degraded to see his quarry. 

He will be glad of the company.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT — And you’ll get those shriveled up prunes you call lungs working again.

YOU — With no other options that wouldn’t leave you twitching with anxiety—in an empty home that doesn’t belong to you with nothing to keep you occupied—you let your legs spring forward, carrying you down the road. 

You don’t go directly for the breezeway that you can see off in the distance, choosing instead to explore around the verge you stumble onto after a MC almost runs you over. In the week that you’ve existed as a conscious person again, you’ve found that people drop all kinds of weird stuff pretty much everywhere. *Useful* stuff. 

Some might call what you do scavenging, but those people are probably *bourgeois* and therefore not worth listening to.

You kick and pick your way through the tall weeds, waving at the young children whipping empty beer bottles at the carriages passing by. They pay you no mind, barely giving you a suspicious side-eye before going back to their game. 

It doesn’t even occur to you that you should probably stop them, considering you *are* a police.

Whatever. You end up finding 10 reál, a weird looking spray bottle with an elephant head on top, and a used hypodermic needle in the grass that you almost step on but thankfully spot quick enough to avoid, so you’re probably not the person to be looking to for policing. 

At least you pick up the needle and toss it into the trash.

By the time that you make it down to the pier, though, your hip is aching badly and the weight of the cans has thinned the handle of the plastic bag. It has been cutting into your hand for the last half kilometer or so, but you ignore it. You got yourself into this mess and you will just deal with it. 

The guy isn’t even *there* to distract you from it, though, and you feel like you’ve let down La Revacholiere. 

FLÂNEUR — Next time. You will find him next time. There is more to be found and you won’t let a little thing like a busted hip stop you, will you?

ENDURANCE — He will if he wants to get out of this without a limp, you pompous ass.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY — Not to mention the dick.

ENDURANCE — NO ONE mentioned anything about his dick.

YOU — You have to admit that you’re a *little* worried about your dick.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY — You should be! You don’t even know if you can get it up anymore! 

PERCEPTION (Sight) — Can you maybe start heading back home before those rain clouds above you start sleeting?

YOU — Aw, shit.

You scuttle off the rickety pier, trying your best to outrun the rain, but by the time you limp back up the stairs to Kim’s apartment, you are soaking wet, almost blinded by the pain in your hip, and absolutely miserable as you turn the key in the lock. Why did you put yourself through this? Kim is still going to be home later than you and he’s going to think— 

KIM KITSURAGI — “*Rebonjour*, lieutenant. Did your meeting go well?” Kim looks up from where he is standing in the tiny kitchen nook, grating a pile of pale yellow cheese onto a wooden cutting board. His brows lift high when he sees you dripping onto his carpet. 

HABITUS [Medium: Success] — For the love of GOD, please take your shoes and jacket off and stop making his home dirtier than you already have. 

YOU — Without a word, you toe off your shoes and squelch into the bathroom, peeling off your jacket and draping it over the shower rail. It drips pathetically into the tub below, leaving you shivering in the frost-bitten air. 

PAIN THRESHOLD [Easy: Success] — Shivering *and* burning up. You know what that means.

LOGIC [Medium: Success] — Fever. You’ve pushed yourself too far and now your body is fighting back. You need to sleep it off.

RESILIENCE [Easy: Success] — At least the handkerchief is dry. Small mercy, but it’s better than nothing. Give it to him and *then* you can pass out.

YOU — Letting out a wet sigh and flinging the water off of your cheeks with a rough hand, you dig the handkerchief out of your jacket’s inner pocket and limp back into the front room, bag of cans banging against your bad leg.

KIM KITSURAGI — This time, the lieutenant doesn’t say anything until you are standing beside him, gently unloading the groceries onto the tiny counter as he reaches into his own plastic bag and takes out a loaf of bread. “Cut this for me?”

YOU — You look around for a space to do so, but the only place you can see is the counter you just covered in cans. The kitchen is *very* small, clearly not intended for two people to stand in it at once. You and the lieutenant bump into each other as you stack the cans, pushing them back until you can *just* fit the bread. 

KIM KITSURAGI — Kim hums with approval, going back to the pan he is warming up on the stove. “Thank you for picking that up. I thought I would have more time to shop after work, but there was a lot to do today.”

EMPATHY [Easy: Success] — A lot to do because of the transfer. It’s unclear whether he means that there was a lot of paperwork or a lot of pushback from his captain. 

PERCEPTION (Smell) [Trivial: Success] — The cheese he is piling onto the thick slices of bread smells nutty and rich. Comforting.

GOURMAND [Medium: Success] — Lelystad Red. You used to use it all the time. Melts perfectly every time and brings a depth of flavour to even something as simple as grilled cheese. Tastes like heaven on the tongue.

PERCEPTION (Sight) [Challenging: Success] — His eyes are tired behind his glasses. Bloodshot and slightly bruised, like he’s been rubbing them all day as he tries to focus on tiny words.

KIM KITSURAGI — The lieutenant blinks, reaching in front of you to take a spice out of the cupboard above your head. “Mm? Something wrong?”

PERCEPTION (Smell) [Formidable: Success] — Plastic and ink. Typewriter ribbon. He’s been writing reports. 

LOGIC [Medium: Success] — Tying up loose ends.

EMPATHY [Medium: Success] — He has dealt with both mountains of paperwork *and* the strain of the transfer today.

You should take his mind off of work.

> **1.- [Gourmand - Trivial 6] Ask him what he’s making for dinner.**
> 
> 2.- [Esprit de Corps - Challenging 12] Tell him you requested to be his partner.
> 
> 3.- [Resilience - Easy 8] Give him the handkerchief.
> 
> 4.- [Composure - Legendary 14] Ask about the medication.
> 
> 5.- [Volition - Challenging 12] Tell him about finding your old house keys.
> 
> 6.- Say nothing.

**CHECK SUCCESS**

YOU — “What’s that you’re making for dinner? Ham sandwich?” You gesture at the paper-wrapped slices of ham waiting inside the bag.

KIM KITSURAGI — The lieutenant’s eyes flash with a subtle humour as he glances over at you. “Croque monsieur.” He reaches around you again to take down two plates as the cheese bubbles merrily on the crusty bread in the pan. “Or madame, if that’s your preference. I do have eggs.”

He watches the pan for a moment before grunting. “So, yes. Fancy ham sandwiches. I’ve been craving it ever since that *racist giant* called you one.”

YOU — You wonder if maybe you should move out of his way.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY [Easy: Success] — Don’t. He smells *good*. 

PERCEPTION (Smell) [Easy: Success] — You, however, do not. 

EMPATHY [Easy: Success] — Maybe go have a shower before you continue to force your proximity on him.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY [Medium: Success] — Ooo, yeah, go do that! Then you can think about how tight Kim’s shirt is around his biceps while you see if your dick still works!

VOLITION [Easy: Success] — What the *fuck*?

PERCEPTION (Sight) [Easy: Success] — He’s right. Now that you’re looking (while trying not to look like you’re looking), you can see that Kim’s white shirt fits snugly against his slim frame, tucked into his trousers as usual. It is a v-neck with the typically short sleeves of an undershirt, resting just above the surprisingly defined curve of his bicep. It flexes and shifts minutely as Kim prepares dinner. 

LOGIC [Medium: Success] — His arms must be stronger than they look to be able to control the Kineema around those tight curves.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY [Medium: Success] — Touch him. His skin is probably *soft*.

HALF-LIGHT [Medium: Success] — Oh dear GOD, get out of the kitchen *right now* before you start listening to that creep.

AUTHORITY [Formidable: Failure] — No one tells you what to do, not even *yourself*.

YOU — You are frozen, eyes caught on the fascinating line of Kim’s arm. He hasn’t noticed you looking yet, but you can feel yourself begin to sweat. Why can’t you look away? What’s going on?

VOLITION [Medium: Success] — Told you you weren’t ready for this.

ANIMA [Easy: Success] — You should probably just go have that shower. It’ll make you feel better to be clean.

> _1.- [Gourmand - Trivial 6] Ask him what he’s making for dinner._
> 
> 2.- [Esprit de Corps - Challenging 12] Tell him you requested to be his partner.
> 
> 3.- [Resilience - Easy 8] Give him the handkerchief.
> 
> 4.- [Composure - Legendary 14] Ask about the medication.
> 
> 5.- [Volition - Challenging 12] Tell him about finding your old house keys.
> 
> **6.- Ask Kim where the towels are so you can have a shower.**
> 
> 7.- Say nothing.

YOU — You clear your throat and take a long step away from Kim. “Hey, um, Kim?”

KIM KITSURAGI — “The towels are in the cabinet in the bathroom. There is bar soap behind the mirror if you prefer that.” The lieutenant’s voice is friendly and matter-of-fact, as though he hasn’t just read your mind somehow. 

“Dinner will be ready in about five minutes, though, so you’ll either have to deal with cold water or a cold sandwich.” The tiny smirk he gives you over his shoulder is enough to make your temperature rise.

YOU — “Won’t take long.” 

You really won’t. 

KIM’S BATHROOM — You shuffle back into the bathroom, peeling your clothes off with a grimace and letting them slap wetly to the tiled floor. Your jacket gets moved over to drape over the closed toilet, though it still gets spritzed by the erratic shower spray. You take a deep breath before jumping underneath it.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT — FUCK THAT’S COLD THAT’S COLD THAT’S COLD

ELECTROCHEMISTRY — DEFINITELY NOT SEXY AT ALL

COMPOSURE — It’s not so bad. Just breathe slow and your body will adjust. 

ENDURANCE — Like hell it will. 

YOU — But it does, one inch at a time, until the spray has warmed enough that you can unclench your ass and get the job done. By the time you’ve finished washing yourself and your hair, it’s almost pleasantly warm. It soothes the shivers deep under your skin and beats away the tension around the bruises that still colour your body. You let out a breath that feels bone-deep, head resting against the tiles.

PERCEPTION (Smell) — Light amounts of mildew from the poorly ventilated bathroom. Some kind of chemical cleaner resting in the toilet’s cistern. The soap you just used. Kim’s soap. You know it is his because it smells just like him.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY — Oh, hey! It still works! Guess all those cumstains on your trousers weren’t just a fluke!

VOLITION — You’re not gonna like what happens if you jerk off in Kim’s shower.

ANIMA — It might be informative, though. 

VOLITION — There are other, less demoralising ways to come to the same conclusion. 

YOU — With a spiky dread writhing in your gut, you quickly slap the shower off, letting the sudden cold coerce your dick back into flaccidity. You do your best to put the thought from your mind as you towel off, but you cannot get the image of Kim’s bicep from behind your eyes. His bare hands. His collarbone peeking out from the neckline of his shirt.

What is wrong with you?

ANIMA — Oh, sweetie. There’s nothing *wrong* with you.

YOU — But there must be. Your hands are trembling as you look at yourself in the foggy mirror, the lines of your face blurred. You run one of those trembling hands across your cheeks, skin scratching against stubble. You need a shave, but you don’t see a razor anywhere and you really don’t want to go digging in Kim’s stuff for one.

You’re especially glad you haven’t tried to do so when a knock comes on the door, gentle but firm. Two raps that make you startle like a skittish deer and then the lieutenant’s voice drifts through, muffled by the thin wood.

KIM KITSURAGI — “Lieutenant, before I forget again, we should check your wound. Make sure there is no infection starting.” There is a soft sigh. “I meant to do it last night, but…”

YOU — But you passed out on the couch in your dirty clothes pretty much as soon as you got inside. You don’t even remember falling asleep, just the sound of Kim telling you where the trolley runs from and when he will be leaving for work in the morning.

COMPOSURE — And yet you *still* overslept.

VOLITION — For the best. You haven’t slept well in months. Years, maybe.

RESILIENCE — You haven’t felt safe enough to sleep.

YOU — And what does *that* mean, that you feel safe enough to sleep *now*?

RESILIENCE — You know what it means.

ANIMA — It’ll come with time.

KIM KITSURAGI — “Harry? Are you alright?”

EMPATHY — Open the door and go with him. Stop making him worry about you.

YOU — You fling open the door, wincing as your towel almost drops off your hips. You grab hold of it tight, clenching your jaw as you feel heat creep up your neck.

COMPOSURE [Formidable: Failure] — Too late. You’re blushing and there’s absolutely nothing to hide that fact from Kim. Not a scarf or a jacket or greasy mutton chops. 

KIM KITSURAGI — Once again, as though reading your mind, the lieutenant gives you a tiny quirk of his brow. “No need to be shy for my sake, Detective. Nothing I haven’t already seen.”

YOU — It takes a second, but then it hits you.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY [Medium: Success] — Fuck, he looked at your *dick* when he took the bullet out.

COMPOSURE [Challenging: Failure] — As weird as it is, the fact that he’s already seen you naked makes this harder.

KIM KITSURAGI — “Now, come on, please. I’d like to get this done quickly. Our dinner is waiting.” With that, he turns and opens the door to his bedroom, gesturing for you to follow him.

RESILIENCE [Medium: Success] — *Our*.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY [Medium: Success] — Fuck the dinner, he just invited you into his *bedroom*! HELL YES.

YOU — You stop mid-step, eyes wide.

You can’t go into *Kim’s bedroom* to do this. You just got a boner from smelling his *soap* in the shower. Imagine what will happen if you have to lie on his bed, his hands on your hip, face close to your— 

> 1.- “No, no, the couch will be fine!” [Walk to the living room as fast as you can]
> 
> 2.- “Fuck yeah, baby, let’s *do* this.” [Drop the towel and strut into the bedroom like a peacock]
> 
> 3.- Take one more second and think about why this bothers you so much before breaking down in tears.
> 
> **4.- Are there really no other options?**

Afraid not, Harry. You’re standing there in a towel with your face hot with shame because you *know* what happened in that shower. There is no getting out of this with dignity intact.

> **1.- “No, no, the couch will be fine!” [Walk to the living room as fast as you can]**
> 
> 2.- “Fuck yeah, baby, let’s *do* this.” [Drop the towel and strut into the bedroom like a peacock]
> 
> 3.- Take one more second and think about why this bothers you so much before breaking down in tears.

KIM KITSURAGI — “Yes, but—!”

YOU — You aren’t listening, even if he continues his protest. You are busying yourself with clearing the rumpled quilt and pillow off of the couch to make room for yourself. Your heart is *definitely* not thumping hard in your chest.

KIM KITSURAGI — After a second, Kim appears behind you with a displeased frown, but does not say anything until you are sitting on the couch, the towel covering everything but your wound. He crouches down next to you, his hands gentle as he removes the soggy bandage over your hip, lips pursing at the sight of the puckered hole underneath. “Well. The good news is, it does seem to be healing.”

PERCEPTION (Sight) [Medium: Success] — The hole is definitely mending, pulling together over the exposed meat of your muscle. However, the outsides are an angry red, the fever practically radiating from the puffy, weeping flesh.

It is infected.

LOGIC [Challenging: Success] — You didn’t keep the area clean and dry. You waded through muck and god-knows what else before running and walking for several hours at a time. *Twice*.

You’re lucky it isn’t worse than infected.

KIM KITSURAGI — You can tell how frustrated he is at the arrival of an infection in the wound, even when all he does is silently stand up and retrieve the first aid kit he has brought in from his Kineema. He works both fast and deft, smearing a yellowish salve around the outside of the wound before taking out a long swab and a jar of white ointment. He pauses after getting a bit of the ointment ready and glances up at you, his glasses sliding down his nose. 

“This is going to hurt.”

YOU — That’s all the warning you get before pain erupts in your hip at the application of the swab. Lights bloom thick and blobby behind your vision and all you can do is grip the couch, grunting and panting through your nose with the effort it takes not to shout out.

PAIN THRESHOLD [Challenging: Success] — But you absolutely *do not* shout. Because you have felt much worse. You can’t really remember feeling much worse than this, but you’re sure you have.

COMPOSURE [Godly: Failure] — You might not be shouting out loud, but there are tears in your eyes and they are going to spill any second. It hurts way too fucking much not to cry.

KIM KITSURAGI — Through watery eyes you can barely make out Kim scowling down at the wound, and it’s only when he looks up at you with his other hand braced against your side that you realise his mouth is moving. You can only catch tiny things— ”*J’ai presque terminé*...almost done…*tout va bien*...”—but they are enough to calm you down.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT [Challenging: Success] — Your lungs, tight with shock, begin to relax, letting in gulps of glorious air. Your vision returns slowly now that you are no longer choking on the pain. 

KIM KITSURAGI — Something eases in Kim’s eyes, as well, as it becomes clear that you are calming down. He lets out a tiny breath that you wouldn’t have noticed if it hadn’t ghosted across your bare skin.

EMPATHY [Medium: Success] — He doesn’t like to see people in pain. It must be difficult, doing what he does every day.

RESILIENCE [Medium: Success] — Talk to him so he doesn’t have to think about it.

> 1.- “Sorry for all this. I’ll be more careful next time.”
> 
> 2.- “You will have to get used to seeing me full of holes, as the end is coming much sooner than any of us could have imagined and I will be the herald.”
> 
> 3.- “You can press harder if you want to. I don’t mind getting a little freaky.”
> 
> **4.- “Bet it’s a lot easier to do this stuff on corpses, huh?”**

KIM KITSURAGI — The lieutenant snorts, a spark of dark humour glittering in his eyes as he glances up at you again. His hands are gently pushing and prodding around the wound now, partly working the salve in and partly checking for abnormalities.

It’s strangely compelling to watch his slim fingers curl into your sore spots.

“They certainly squirm less.”

> **1.- “Sucks when they stare at you while you work, though.”**
> 
> 2.- Say nothing.

KIM KITSURAGI — He is definitely smiling now, that subtle humour lighting up his whole face. 

“A complete lack of manners, yes. The *worst* part of working with corpses.”

> **1.- “At least I smell nicer than a corpse.”**
> 
> 2.- Let the conversation drop.

KIM KITSURAGI — He smooths a wide bandage over your wound again. “*Now* you do.”

YOU — You almost wince at the reminder that you haven’t exactly taken care of yourself recently, but the smirk he wears lets you know he is joking. 

RESILIENCE [Easy: Success] — In fact, he thinks you smell good.

KIM KITSURAGI — “Alright. That’s all done.” He turns and busies himself with screwing the lids back on the ointments, clearly giving you some privacy so you can get dressed. “Hopefully we’ve caught the infection early enough that these will take care of it.”

YOU — You stand gingerly, favouring your bad hip as you shove your legs into the jeans you found in Martinaise. They still haven’t given you a god ass, but at least they’re more comfortable than your dress pants. You throw on the first shirt you grab and make a face at the way your long wet hair curls around the collar. 

ANIMA — Kim might have a tie you can use to put it up.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT — Whoah, whoah, whoah. It’s one thing to wear the racially insensitive robe and mesh shirt while we’re singing karaoke, but putting your hair up? Seems kinda...y’know.

ANIMA — Practical? Genderless? Literally not worth mentioning?

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT — *How* is putting your hair up like a little girl *genderless*?

ANIMA — Like a *little*— 

GOURMAND — Your sandwich is getting cold!!

YOU — You have a point. The hair can wait. 

KIM KITSURAGI — Kim has already sat himself at the tiny two-person table, ripping pieces of his sandwich like he’s trying to impress you with the melted cheese pull. He digs in without waiting for you.

PERCEPTION (Hearing) [Challenging: Success] — He sighs in the back of his throat when he likes the taste of something.

YOU — As you sit and pick up your own sandwich, your eye catches on the medication that rests on the table between you. 

> _1.- [Gourmand - Trivial 6] Ask him what he’s making for dinner._
> 
> 2.- [Esprit de Corps - Challenging 12] Tell him you requested to be his partner.
> 
> 3.- [Resilience - Easy 8] Give him the handkerchief.
> 
> **4.- [Composure - Legendary 14] Ask about the medication.**
> 
> 5.- [Volition - Challenging 12] Tell him about finding your old house keys.
> 
> _6.- Ask Kim where the towels are so you can have a shower._
> 
> 7.- Say nothing.

**CHECK SUCCESS**

YOU — “K—Lieutenant, did you request medication for me?”

KIM — A flash of surprise crosses the lieutenant’s face before it smooths back out. He nods, taking another bite. “We can discuss it after dinner.”

> 1.- [Authority - Heroic 15] Insist on talking about it right now.
> 
> **2.- Nod and focus on eating your sandwich.**

GOURMAND — Good idea. This sandwich is *amazing*. You don’t know why this sandwich in particular is so good, but it’s like your taste buds have all woken up at once and are shivering with delight. The ham is perfectly salty with a hint of woodsmoke and the cheese, despite having sat for a few minutes, is still gooey in your mouth. Kim has put some kind of hot spice and pickled vegetable inside and each crunch bursts a world of flavour in your mouth. 

You need to eat this again. Every single day of your life.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT — You do and you’ll never lose your beer belly.

GOURMAND — Somehow, a cheese belly feels like it would be worth it.

YOU — Unfortunately, no sandwich lasts forever, especially when you’re so hungry. You finish it off much faster than you would have liked, but still, by the time you take your last bite, Kim has already polished off all of his.

KIM KITSURAGI — Collecting both of your plates, Kim deposits them in the sink before glancing at his watch and digging a pack of cigarettes out of his jacket. He holds one between his fingers and crooks it at you, an eyebrow raised.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY [Medium: Success] — Yes yes yes yes yes yes yes

VOLITION [Easy: Success] — One cigarette won’t make you backslide into amphetamine addiction. You can share this with him if you want to.

YOU — You do want to.

HAND/EYE COORDINATION [Medium: Success] — Holding your hand up for it, you manage to snatch the cigarette and lighter out of the air as Kim tosses them your way. You prop the cigarette between your lips and light it without looking, flicking the lighter back to Kim. When he catches it just as deftly, strikes the flame high, and lights his cigarette in one motion, the pleasure receptors in your brain all fire off at once.

He’s so fuckin’ *cool*.

KIM KITSURAGI — Kim wanders over to the shuttered window on the opposite side of the room, flinging it open and leaning his hip against the sill. You can’t help but follow, eyes caught on the confident, easy way he stands. He’s completely in control of his body. 

He turns to you with a ghost of a smile when you come up beside him, flicking ash out of the window. “Campinall. Serotrine. Drouamine. I was going to ask if you wanted me to order them for you. I’m sorry if I overstepped any boundaries.”

YOU — It takes you a second to realise he’s talking about the medication.

ENCYCLOPEDIA [Challenging: Success] — Campinall: anti-addiction pill meant to help those trying to reduce their doses instead of going cold turkey. Can be taken in conjunction with alcohol and stimulants without side effect. If taken with hallucinogenic, may cause side effects.

Serotrine: Antidepressant. Widely favoured over other antidepressants, Serotrine is a good starting point for those who have had poor reaction to other medications in the past. Performs well even in low dosages, and therefore recommended for first trials. Can be administered to those who are pregnant or breastfeeding, though observation is recommended.

Drouamine: Pain medication. Morphine-based and highly addictive under certain circumstance. Not recommended use while under the effect of euphorics.

> **1.- “Campinall and Serotrine together? That won’t end well for me.”**
> 
> 2.- “What boundaries? You’ve seen me at my worst already. I have no boundaries.”
> 
> 3.- “It’s a little annoying that you would do something like that without asking me.”
> 
> 4.- “You shouldn’t have done that. I can make my own life decisions.”

KIM KITSURAGI — Kim nods, humming lightly. “Your memory is still returning. That’s good.” He takes a long drag from his cigarette before letting it out slow, the smoke curling around his lips. 

You feel it must be the most sensual thing you’ve ever seen in your life.

YOU — You wonder if it’s something that is only for the homo-sexuals. Being cool while smoking. Both Kim and the smoker on the balcony have it down to an art. You wonder if you’ll ever get to look that cool, too.

ANIMA — Oh, honey.

KIM KITSURAGI — “The Serotrine is for later, if you get to that point. The Campinall is for now. It would be given to you alongside controlled doses of alcohol.” He sighs out the rest of his drag in a rush before looking over at you, his gaze serious. “Given by me. If you want it.”

EMPATHY [Medium: Success] — He is asking if you want to get better.

RESILIENCE [Medium: Success] — He is asking if you want him to help you.

ANIMA [Medium: Success] — Just like giving you a place to stay. He is reaching out to you. Making himself vulnerable.

VOLITION [Challenging: Success] — Tell him yes.

INLAND EMPIRE [Challenging: Success] — You said no, before. In another life, another memory that no longer exists. Wiped in the purge. But the imprint of it still exists. Like a pink slip underneath a form, the indentations formed in the paper of your memory. It smells like blood and ink and despair. 

You can get it back. If you want to rebuild that bridge, you will need it again.

> **1.- I want to remember the other lives I’ve left behind.**
> 
> 2.- I can’t look back. I have to keep moving forward. [Discard Thought]

**THOUGHT GAINED: The Ashes Left Behind**

KIM KITSURAGI — Kim is waiting patiently for your response.

RHETORIC [Challenging: Failure] — Words fail you. You are too moved at the thought of a man like Kim Kitsuragi looking at you and seeing someone worth helping.

COMPOSURE [Challenging: Failure] — Your throat is thick with emotion and all you can do is nod.

KIM KITSURAGI — The lieutenant gives you a soft smile, reaching out to grip your shoulder. “Then we’ll start tomorrow night.”

YOU — The weight of his hand is soothing, but the places his fingers push against you send branches of shivers through you. You swallow, pushing down the urge to wrap your arms around him just to chase that feeling. Even you know it wouldn’t be appropriate.

And then his hand is gone, dropping down to brace against the window.

You can feel the burn of the house keys from where they rest in your jacket pocket.

The handkerchief whispers to you from your discarded trousers.

The bag of medication stands bright against the dark wall.

Something breaks loose, just a little bit.

“You’re sure about all this, Kim?” you ask, a sea bird calling from the chimneys. “You’ve already spent the last week with me. Won’t you get sick of me?”

KIM KITSURAGI — The lieutenant is quiet for long enough that you begin to feel antsy. And then he flashes a smile out to the world. “Well. You’re right. I’ve spent a whole week with you, Harry, and I survived.” His voice is low. Close. “So what difference does another couple of weeks make?”

VOLITION — The world. It could make a whole world of difference.

As long as you let it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: Kim spends the rest of the week Freaking Out in a very controlled way
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/TellCosy)/[tumblr](https://tellcosy.tumblr.com)


	3. Buzzing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are many unpredictable things in Kim's life at the moment. Harry is the worst of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW drug use, panic attacks

As Kim watches the sun rise out of his bedroom window, Harry’s snores finally drifting through the wall after a restless night, he wonders if perhaps he is being too harsh on the lieutenant. 

Four days.

Four days of boredom. Keeping himself busy while Kim goes to work. One day down.

He knows that the hardest thing for Harry will be the boredom. A mundane life without any _partying_. He is a man of action, of chaotic movement. Kim’s legs are still sore from a week of running all over the coast. He believes wholeheartedly that Harry has it in him to get better, but if anything is going to kill his momentum before it even starts, it will be surviving without a drink in the harsh and boring world.

It feels cruel, but Kim would rather give Harry the chance to backslide now instead of later. He needs to know exactly how dependent Harry is. He’s willing to give him all the support he needs, but if he goes all in from the beginning and Harry doesn’t need it, he will never know where his own limits lie.

And so Kim drinks his coffee and ignores the twinges of guilt inside his stomach as he makes plans for what he will do if he comes home to a drunk Harry. Feeling guilty isn’t useful. If Harry is going to make it through this, then he needs someone to plan. Someone to be there to pick up the pieces if he falls apart.

Kim can do that.

 _And if you plan for it this time, then maybe you can keep_ yourself _from falling apart, too._

A wave of dread rolls through him, his stomach clenching harder.

Maybe coffee isn’t a good idea, but he needs it. He has spent both nights Harry has been with him in a sort of half-awake stupor, dreaming even while his ears strain to listen for any warning sounds. He doesn’t know what he’s listening for, or why, but he can’t seem to settle when Harry is in his living room.

Now if only he can convince Harry to take the spare bed, he might get some sleep.

His breath fogs the thin, warped glass in front of him and he leans back, corner of the sill digging into his back. Harry goes silent for a moment and Kim’s heart beats hard in the echoing quiet, the air caught in his lungs. 

When Harry finally breaks the silence with a whimper, Kim closes his eyes. 

What is he doing?

Why is he still going to work? He can finish his paperwork from home; his captain has already told him as much. He wants to believe that he was offered this out of a sense of kindness—that his captain was simply trying to save him the unnecessary journeys back and forth. But he knows it is much more likely that he didn’t want to deal with the snide gossip that has erupted in the wake of the announcement.

Kim is glad that he spent the day before in the lieutenants’ office making last minute notes for all his active cases and preparing them for reassignment. He is used to ignoring any pointed looks sent his way, so he managed to avoid the first wave of it entirely. 

He wonders if it will make the second day that much worse.

He wonders if it will be even worse at 41.

Either way, it won’t be anything he can’t handle. He has survived everything they have thrown at him over the past twenty years and this won’t be the thing that breaks him.

He isn’t sure if he can say the same about Harry.

He doesn’t know what he’s doing. It’s been five years since he’s felt anything close to this level of camaraderie with anyone. It’s a little bit frightening to him to dig into his own emotions and see that it will _hurt_ if Harry fails. It makes him feel out of control. Like despite the fact that Kim has guided both the investigation and now Harry’s recovery, he’s not the one who’s actually holding the wheel. 

_Does that mean that Harry is the one driving?_

He doesn’t know. And the not knowing is worse than anything.

Kim wonders what he would have done, had he known. 

About Harrier Du Bois.

He wonders if he’d gotten more than a passing, ‘Oh, he’s completely washed up, you’ll probably be doing most of the work while he stumbles around drunk off his ass,’ from his coworkers at 57, that he would have prepared himself more. 

No one told him that he would be a kind man. That he would be a bit pathetic at first, but because he’s _ill_ , not because he’s inept. That he would have a sense of humour. That he would understand Kim’s sense of humour. That he would seem to feed off of praise, no matter how small, as long as it’s freely given. That he would drag himself out of the grave he’d clearly dug for himself just because someone reached a hand down. 

That seeing him bleeding out on the ground would make him feel like the air had evaporated from his lungs. 

No one had warned Kim that he would _like_ Harry.

And now he has no idea what he’s doing.

Going to work. He’s going to go to work. He’s going to debrief the sergeants. He’s going to train the cadets. Get lunch from the market. Walk it down to Mrs. Lefevre and let her know that he will be transferring her case to Lieutenant Marcus. Patrol. Transfer his cold cases over to 41. Get back in time for the afternoon meeting. Pick up vegetables on the way home to make with the pasta in his cupboard. Eat dinner. Same routine as ever. Nothing is different.

Just because Harry is now a part of that routine doesn’t mean it will be different.

 _That’s what you think_.

That’s what he _has_ to think. He can’t let himself lose control just because Harry is a force of nature; a whirlwind of a man that has blown into his life and upset the balance he has spent decades establishing.

Even when he walks into his living room and finds Harry standing in his kitchen, hair tumbling out of a messy ponytail and the imprint of his pillow pressed into his stubbled cheek as he stands over the kettle, yawning. He is still wearing the pajama bottoms that Kim gave him and a rumpled t-shirt that emphasises the width of his shoulders and biceps. 

Kim stops dead, heart thumping hard. 

Just once. 

Just once and then it goes back to normal.

Just a reaction to seeing a man wearing his clothes, standing in his kitchen. It doesn’t have to be about Harry. He just hasn’t seen another man in his house since the last time he had sex. 

Which was too long ago to remember.

 _Hey, you know what you_ can _remember? When he lifted that barbell. What if he could pick you up like that._

What a ridiculously unhelpful thought to have! He’s not going to acknowledge it.

_Sure._

No. He really won’t.

“Oh, mornin’,” Harry mumbles when he catches sight of Kim standing ramrod-straight behind him. His smile is slow and sleepy and pleased and Kim is so surprised at the fishhook that yanks at his core that he can only nod stiffly. 

What the hell is that?

“Couldn’t sleep ‘cause I kept thinking I’d oversleep and miss you in the morning again.” Harry glances over at the clock on the wall, its big glowing numbers ticking over another minute. His smile goes sheepish. “Guess I don’t have time to make breakfast now.”

“No, that’s—” Kim has to stop and clear the gruffness from his throat. “That’s okay. I don’t often eat breakfast anyway.”

“Why not?” Harry asks, brows heavy with concern. “Breakfast is the most important meal of the day, Kim.”

“It makes me feel ill to eat so early,” he says, shifting his weight onto his hip. He isn’t sure why the half-truth came out; it isn’t like it’s harder to explain that he doesn’t have time to make himself breakfast most days. 

Maybe it’s because he knows Harry will continue to wake up early to make them both breakfast if he encourages him at all.

He doesn’t know why that is so unsettling.

He knows Harry doesn’t buy it, either way. He tilts his head and narrows his eyes ever-so-slightly, the same way he did when he caught out someone’s lie in Martinaise. Luckily, he has learned that pushing Kim on personal things will get him nowhere, and so he says nothing. 

Kim wonders later if he should have perhaps been a bit more suspicious of his easy compliance. 

At the time, though, he is grateful for the quick escape it offers him. He spends all day deliberately not thinking about that morning, getting through his tasks with distraction. His fellow lieutenants make their jabs about him “downgrading” to 41, but he can only think about the handkerchief he found in Harry’s trousers when he went to wash them the night before.

He hadn’t washed anything after that.

He writes his lists on his lunch break, hoping to organise his thoughts, but it just leaves space for the other, less helpful thoughts. Thoughts that have no category yet. 

Mrs. Lefevre asks him why he’s making such a sudden change and he sees the circle of men and women on the coast all looking at him like they know he is a decorated lieutenant.

He tells her that he is simply looking for a change of pace.

When he gets home that night, Harry is leafing through one of his MC magazines, legs dangling over the arm of the couch. 

The laundry is stacked neatly in the basket beside the door.

Harry smiles when he closes the door, sitting up and tossing the magazine back down to the coffee table. “Kim! You’re home!”

_Home._

The word circles Kim’s mind as he makes dinner that night, Harry chatting about his long walks and where he went. 

(Down to the pier again, which Kim finds odd until Harry talks about finding the man he ‘was supposed to find yesterday, but got distracted by treasure hunting.’ Kim realises that this is another of his voices, but is not sure why it seems to be fixated on this particular man. He supposes he’ll have to get used to being a bit lost when it comes to Harry’s whims.)

Kim shares another cigarette with Harry that night after he takes his medication, but with the laundry done and paperwork sorted until the transfer, he is at a loss for what to do with his sudden free time. Especially when Harry drifts off in the middle of listening to a recap of a baseball game that he gets Kim to explain the rules of until he can follow along without help.

He quietly switches the radio off and covers Harry with the quilt, tucking his legs into the space he leaves.

He wanders his own house like a ghost, heart racing in the silence, the word bouncing off the walls of his skull. 

_Home, home, home, home._

Is it? Is it his home?

Kim doesn’t know what that word means. He knows it is just the anxiety of a big life change speaking, but he can’t stopthinking. He cleans and polishes his boots while Harry mumbles in his sleep.

He says his name.

It’s just a name. Just like home is just a word.

He puts their clothes away, Harry’s slotting perfectly into the space that has always existed in his wardrobe. 

( _This union is temporary._ )

> HOME — Take Harry shopping for clothes

He sits down at the heavy oak desk in his bedroom, working on his model machines by lamplight, his leg bouncing. He watches teens meet up in the alley across the street and spray graffito over every empty space they can.

He sees the fire blazing in Harry’s eyes— 

**UN JOUR JE SERAI DE RETOUR PRÈS DE TOI**

—and he knows he can’t stay in this apartment for another second.

He yanks out one of his cheap notepads from the bookshelf beside the radio and writes a quick note to Harry before tossing his jacket and boots back on and leaving as quietly as he can. 

He can barely breathe by the time he climbs into the Kineema, leather seats ice cold under him. He doesn’t care. 

He just drives.

He doesn’t know how long. He lets everything go with each kilometer that passes underneath him until the only part of him that remains is his hands on the wheel and his foot on the pedal. He soars somewhere above through the whipping winds and the star-studded sky, heart fluttering.

He will have to say goodbye to this.

Goodbye to what he knows and loves.

He doesn’t know if it will be worth it. He hopes. He believes.

He has to. 

Something happened to him in that village. Something unearthed inside his chest, exposed all the roots beneath that he has kept hidden for so long. He buried them _so_ deep and all it took was a week. A _week_.

He ends up on the coast. On a cliff overlooking the ocean. The air is clean and salty and so cold that his face goes numb. He can only see darkness, but his heart steadies. His body calms, standing atop the limestone. The ocean roars beneath him.

_He will be worth it._

_He says your name in his sleep._

_It isn’t just_ you _doing this._ He _wants to be better. Wants to live._

 _Now the question is, Lieutenant Kim Kitsuragi...what do_ you _want?_

He doesn’t know anymore.

But he knows he will find out.

When he returns to his home, Harry is asleep in his bed, pillow and note clutched tight in his arms. 

A week ago, he might have been surprised. Annoyed. But now he just straightens his blanket over Harry and makes up the second bed for himself.

He is asleep as soon as his head hits the pillow.

When he wakes at 05:55 as he does every single morning, he has a brief moment of panic over where he is, but Harry’s sleepy mumbles remind him almost immediately. He exhales the rest of the jitters in his lungs and swings his legs over the side of the bed, rubbing his face. He pauses with his hands cupped over his eyes, listening to Harry giggle at something only he can see.

That’s a new sound.

In all the things Kim heard as Harry slept in Martinaise, laughter was never one of them.

He smiles into the dark and gets up, ready to start his last day as a homicide detective at 57. 

Harry sleeps right through this time, clearly still catching up.

It’s a little odd to see, considering the usual symptoms of detox and recovery include severe insomnia, but he reminds himself that he has no idea what happens when he is asleep. It’s possible that Harry simply lies awake while Kim sleeps and finally falls asleep when he wakes up.

Or maybe he’s just crashing after not sleeping for a week.

 _At least_.

Whatever it is, Kim steps lightly through the apartment as he gets ready, tapping his pockets to make sure he has his keys before closing the door behind him. It hits him as he jogs down the stairs that this will be the last day that he will be able to do that.

He feels a bit sick at the thought, but he isn’t going to make a fuss over a motorcarriage.

Even if he _does_ love it.

Still, he drives a little slower to work today, savouring his last hour with the Kineema. He regrets not being able to take Harry out in it at least once more; the lieutenant is surprisingly into MCs as well. He never would have pegged him as the sort of man to appreciate a finely-tuned machine, but then again, he hadn’t pegged Harry to be into much else other than drinking and drugs at first.

He hasn’t known many others that far gone who can still think of anything or anyone other than the next fix.

Which is why it comes as a shock when he goes to turn in his keys and papers for the Kineema and his captain just waves them off. It’s taken care of, apparently. No need for the extra motorcarriage until a new lieutenant is assigned and 41 paid a good price for it. 

Good luck in your new precinct, Lieutenant. It’s been an honour.

And that is that. 

Kim leaves Precinct 57 in a sort of daze, accepting Alice’s tearful hug and promising to keep in touch. He salutes his fellow lieutenants and allows the hard, manly thumps to his back from the sergeants who have never respected him for a single moment.

No one calls him Pinball, though, so he takes it as a success.

Especially when he walks through the parking bay back to where his Kineema waits for him, shining with the glare of the sunset behind him. The seats are warm with collected sunlight and it smells like leather and lemon cleaner.

He spends the ride home with the windows down, the air buffeting him and whisking his ear-piercingly loud music away.

He smiles back at Harry that night as he closes the apartment door.

“Kim! How was your last day of work?”

Kim looks between the large wooden crate sat in the middle of his apartment floor and Harry, who is kneeling beside it with an egg in one hand and a cabbage in the other. There is dirt all over the carpet. And Harry.

“It wasn’t my last day of work,” Kim corrects him absently, eyes following the trail of dirt from the door to the crate.

Harry clearly notices, as he immediately makes a quiet noise of embarrassment in his throat and stands up quickly. “Sorry, I’ll clean it up, I promise.”

“I know you will.”

“As soon as I figure out _how_ ,” Harry says, surveying the damage underfoot. 

“We can sweep up most of it but I’m afraid you’ll have to carry up the vacuum from the storage in the cellar. It is _not_ lightweight.” Kim shrugs out of his jacket and gloves, hanging them up and reaching around the low kitchen wall for the broom and pan. “Any particular reason you felt like starting a garden in my living room?”

Harry stumbles out of the way when Kim approaches, sweeping the largest clumps of dirt into a pile. It is woefully inadequate, but it’s better than clogging up the vacuum’s intake. 

“I—”

Kim looks up when Harry cuts himself off, and is surprised to see him looking unsure. “You?”

“I got bored.”

Ah.

Kim nods. “Yes, that will happen. The world is often very boring, I’m afraid.”

Harry watches him clean, crouching down with him when he goes to sweep the pile into the pan. Kim raises his brows, amused, but says nothing. Harry often mirrors him without realising it, as though he’s trying to figure out how normal people move and talk. 

“I wasn’t trying to make a mess. I just went to introduce myself to your neighbours and some of them said I could go collect the food from the shared allotment for them if I needed something to do. So then I went because I—” Kim glances over and sees Harry swallow. “I was thinking about drinking the rest of that bottle of wine.”

Kim stops, using the broom to steady himself in his crouch. He meets Harry’s eyes even though he looks like he would rather look anywhere else. After a long tense moment, he asks, “Is it too hard? The dose? I can look into treatment to help with total abstinence, if you would rather take that path.”

Harry shakes his head, then rocks back and lands hard on the floor, his legs akimbo. “You said this is the safer way.”

“I’m only repeating the advice I’ve been given. We can try anything you need. Get you new advice to follow,” Kim says, kneeling on one knee and propping the broom against his shoulder so he can clean his glasses on his shirt. “I know some people find it too difficult to have their addictive substance in the same house with them, whether or not it’s under—”

Kim’s voice catches in his throat as a vague shape of a hand holding something orange and white thrusts under his face. He knows what it is even before he lets go of his shirt and takes it gently. 

The handkerchief.

Harry’s hand brushes against his and Kim can feel his face settle into a mask of neutrality. Harry’s hand is warm and a little clammy, the soft hairs dusting the back of it tickling his fingers. The handkerchief itself is even softer, pooling into his palm. He can barely make out the shape of his initials as his thumb traces the embroidered lines.

He almost laughs when a tiny voice whispers in his head that Harry has probably paid too much for this monogram when he can just do it himself.

That isn’t the _point_.

“I, uh, I saw this and thought of you—and I gave away your other one! So. You can use this one for your glasses.” 

Harry clears his throat and Kim looks up in the direction of his eyes instinctively. He can’t see a damned thing on his face, but he can still tell he’s trying to smile. 

The futile, impotent anger at his terrible eyes flashes down his spine before he crushes it. He always knew his eyesight would get exponentially worse with age. This isn’t a surprise and there’s no use in getting angry over a disability he can’t do anything about. 

So he simply nods and bends his head to clean his glasses, slipping them back on his face to see Harry watching him with such an obvious affection that he can only say, “ _Merci_ , Lieutenant. It’s perfect.”

Harry’s eyes light up and Kim looks away, a smile forming unbidden.

“Don’t mention it.” Harry’s voice is even more affectionate. 

Kim just licks his lips reflexively and tucks the handkerchief into his back pocket, standing and tapping the dirt further into the pan. “In any case, I can pour out the wine if you’d like. It wasn’t expensive.”

“I...want to keep trying. Like this. It’s been nice to share it with you.” Harry puffs out his cheeks before blowing the air out and looking up at the ceiling. “I don’t have a lot of memories. But even if I did, I don’t think I would have any good ones from when I was drinking.”

Kim doesn’t think he would, either.

“But having that drink with you was like I was just a normal guy. Having a normal drink.” Harry’s eyes go distant. “I don’t want to keep drinking. I don’t like who I am when I drink. But I think I’d like to try to make _some_ normal memories with it. To replace the bad.”

Kim lets the words sink into the air, into Harry, mulling over them. It makes sense—in a very Harry sort of way.

“Alright. If you’re sure.”

Harry just nods, his mouth tightening.

“Come on, then. I’ll bring this stuff to everyone while you collect the vacuum.”

Harry grunts in affirmation and they both set off to their tasks, Kim doling out the collected produce to his grateful elderly neighbours and promising to thank Harry for them. He makes note of every kind word they have for the lieutenant, proud that Harry has not only behaved himself around them, but has managed to cheer them up. Kim doesn’t know any of them particularly well, but they always seem to appreciate his willingness to sit down for a hot drink and whatever gossip they’ve picked up. He’s just grateful that he doesn’t have to make any apologies.

Except for the flickering lights overhead while Harry uses the industrial strength vacuum, but that is par for the course in this building. The wiring isn’t exactly _modern_.

He gets sent away from the last of his neighbours with a generous slice of cake and a promise for more over the weekend. He steps gingerly on the stairs, unable to see them under the enormous crate, and taps the door to his apartment rather than struggle with the doorknob himself. Harry answers after a few muffled swears and obvious stumbling, his face splotchy red from the effort of cleaning and hair pulled back again. 

“Oh, sorry, didn’t think about— _is that cake_.”

Kim shifts the crate and pushes past a rubber-necking Harry, dropping it and the cake inside onto the table and going to wash the dirt from his hands. “Have it now if you want, but I’m going to make curry for dinner. You probably won’t be able to eat both.”

“That sounds like a challenge, lieutenant.”

“It wasn’t, so don’t blame me if you get sick in bed tonight.”

When he glances over at Harry as he dries his hands, he sees the very moment that the memory hits him. He watches him go into one of his Courage Moments, as Kim has begun to think of them—the times when Harry goes quiet and still and seems to draw himself up with determination before saying something that clearly takes effort to say.

This time, though, it’s like something cracks in Harry’s eyes and he shifts uncomfortably, face going red in a whole different way than before.

“Kim, uh—thuh—the thing about—last night, you know—I didn’t—I don’t really remember going into your room.” The words come out choked, as though Harry would much rather not be talking. Kim has to work not to react. “I didn’t do anything _weird_ you know, I just _slept_ —I think—but I definitely didn’t _jerk off_ in your bed or anything—I just—”

“Lieutenant,” Kim cuts in quickly, busying himself with taking down the ingredients for dinner so he doesn’t start laughing. “You can stop talking now.”

“Thank you. Okay. I’ll do that.”

Kim lets him live with the silence in the kitchen for just a few seconds before saying, “I was sleeping in the spare bed. I know you didn’t do anything.”

“Spare...bed?”

“The spare bed,” Kim repeats, giving Harry a significant look. “The spare bed that I have been trying to get you to sleep in instead of the couch that you do not fit on, but you keep assuming I’m trying to offer you _my_ bed.” When Harry just stares at him with a troubled curl to his brows like there are a hundred questions he’d like to ask, Kim shakes his head. “Don’t overthink it, Harry. There is a spare bed and I’m offering it to you.”

“But—”

Harry cuts himself off at the look Kim gives him.

“Alright.”

Kim nods, pleased that he has finally gotten through to him. Especially since, “It’s the least I can do, considering you spoke up about my motorcarriage to your captain.” He hums, speaking to himself under his breath. “ _Our_ captain now, I suppose.”

Harry peers into the pot as Kim pops cardamoms inside. “I didn’t talk to Pryce.” Kim makes a noise of disbelief and Harry looks up with comic amounts of sincerity in his eyes. “I didn’t. I ran into Trant yesterday on my walk and we talked about stuff, but I didn’t talk to Pryce.”

Kim raises an eyebrow. “Stuff?”

But Harry just shrugs and no matter how long Kim waits for him to explain, he is not forthcoming.

That’s fine. It isn’t like he wants to make a big deal of it. “Well. Thank you, anyway.”

Harry doesn’t respond, seemingly too absorbed in watching him cook. Which works for Kim. It keeps both of them occupied, at least until it is time for it to simmer. But then Harry just switches on the radio and surprises Kim by insisting they listen to what he wants. 

Kim isn’t sure what to suggest because he’s usually working late on Thursdays, but the thought of admitting that to Harry brings a sour taste to his mouth. He station-hops until he finds something that sounds like a behind-the-scenes of a comedy milieu he has heard one or two sessions of. Harry gets way too into it, both calling out a recap to him of everything he’s missing as he gets up to finish dinner and insisting on sitting at the coffee table so he can hear it better. 

Kim joins him down on the floor after he’s finished eating, bringing both of their glasses and setting Harry’s down in front of him as casually as he can. He knows what the doctor has said, but it feels counter-intuitive to be reintroducing alcohol to Harry after he went the whole investigation without it. 

Still, Harry’s words stay with him, and so he makes sure to push the worry away and just focus on sitting with him until the end of the documentary rolls. By the time it comes around, Kim’s eyes have grown heavy and they both fall into their respective beds with only a mumbled goodnight.

Kim sleeps all through the night, dreaming of flying.

He wakes on the last day of the work week with a sinking feeling that seems incongruent to how well he has slept. He pushes it aside as much as he can, but it hovers annoyingly as he hops into the shower and gets ready for the day. 

The only thing he can think is that he must be worried about introducing himself at Precinct 41, but even that doesn’t seem quite right.

Still, it’s the best he has to work with, and so he drinks his coffee nervously and plans out how the conversations might go, making notes on what he knows of every one of his new coworkers. Harry stumbles into the kitchen just as he’s washing out his mug, but thankfully doesn’t insist on making breakfast this time. He just grunts out a goodbye and “Have a good day,” and lets Kim escape before he can begin to notice how rough his voice is in the morning.

The drive to Precinct 41 is much faster than he would have preferred, but he still manages to keep a cool head as he strolls through the halls that are at once familiar and strange. 

And then the precinct surprises him so much that he once again feels off-kilter. He gets a firm handshake from Captain Pryce outside of the briefing room and a quick introduction during the Precinct-wide meeting, but other than that, there is little fuss made. Everyone simply listens to what the hotpoints will be over the week and nods at Kim and leaves in a big crowding pile when the meeting has concluded. 

Some of the patrol officers even wave at him.

Kim watches all of this with a frozen sort of confusion that melts away into intense relief.

This is not a bad move. 

It is going to be fine. 

They weren’t overly friendly with him and they didn’t outright ignore him. 

It’s as if they have better things to do than make a big deal out of the new lieutenant.

It’s almost surreal for him to be able to walk unimpeded through Wing A’s bullpen to the lieutenants’ rooms, but he does just that. He sits in on the secondary meeting between the Precinct’s lieutenants and sergeants, watching everyone closely. 

Wing A’s lieutenants—both men, both early middle-aged, both bigger than average physically—are highly self-assured and sloppy in their debriefing, leaving the sergeants under them obviously frustrated with the lack of direction. The dynamic between the two ranks screams that nepotism has played a hand in doling out promotions. 

Kim makes a note to approach the sergeants instead of the lieutenants when he requires fruitful communication between the two wings. The lieutenants likely will not respect him enough to cooperate without jumping through hoops. They are here for a good time, not to help people.

Wing B’s lieutenants, on the other hand, both look beyond exhausted. Exhausted and downright envious when they glance over at Wing C and see four lieutenants’ chairs instead of two. They are being worked to the bone until they are ready to be spat out into an early grave. Still, despite this, they both hold a deep spark of interest in their eyes when they meet Kim’s gaze.

The woman sizes him up while the man looks to her with shrewd eyes before she sits back and they both nod at him fraternally. He isn’t sure what test he’s passed and he doesn’t particularly care. As long as they aren’t going to make his life difficult, he’s happy to work with anyone.

What he doesn’t expect is for the problem to come from his own wing.

It doesn’t happen immediately, though, nor from the most likely suspects: the two macho jock sergeants that rough-house and posture with one of Wing A’s lieutenants. Torson and McLaine, Kim assumes. He remembers them as the voices on the radio mocking Harry.

He is not starting those particular relationships on the best foot, he feels, but he gives both of them the benefit of the doubt and is pleased to find that they defer to him just as easily as they do Satellite-Officer Vicquemare.

He doesn’t know how long that will last, of course—especially once they find out about his sexuality—but it’s a nice change for the moment. At least he knows they aren’t racist. Outwardly.

He wishes that there wasn’t a distinction to be made there, but in his youth he was hurt by far too many people who seemed to be decent on the surface then said disgusting things when he wasn’t listening.

He is not so naïve now.

Which is why it comes as such a shock for him—after a painless day of getting acquainted with the precinct and the cases he is to take on—to find his fellow lieutenant with his face kissing his desk, lines of Blow disappearing into his nose as though he needs it to breathe.

It isn’t the fact that the lieutenant is doing drugs that surprises him. It isn’t that he is doing drugs _at work_. It isn’t the fact that for all the shit he gave Harry, he’s also using.

No, it’s the surprise itself that surprises Kim. 

He doesn’t know what he expected. Wasn’t he the one who told Harry that it isn’t unusual for RCM officers to end up users of the same stuff they do their best to keep people clean of? He _knows_ this. He has seen it a thousand—a hundred thousand times.

He has seen so many dead officers, choked in their own vomit, blood in their eyes, needle in their hand. Officers who couldn’t bear another second of this life without something to take the pain away.

He blinks the images away. 

As they disappear into the boxes tucked away in his mind, his limbs loosen up again. He shuts the door to the lieutenant’s office softly, moving over to the desk that sits diagonal to Jean’s. He scoops up the neat stack of blue folders he has spent the day making notes on, not looking over as Jean mumbles, 

“How many times do I have to tell you not to fuck around with other people’s desks, Mack— _oh_.”

The sound of that grunted _oh_ is almost comical in its timing. Good thing Kim doesn’t feel like laughing.

“Lieutenant Kitsuragi, ah...I didn’t know you were still in the office.”

Kim glances over quickly before stuffing the folders into a shoulder bag. “I can see that.”

“This, uh—it isn’t what it looks like.”

“Is that right?” Kim says lightly, shrugging his jacket on and checking his pockets for his keys. They are in his inside pocket next to his handkerchief, right where he left them. “Because it looks like you’re getting high in the lieutenants’ office.” He slings the bag over his shoulder and looks down at Jean, who has swept the other lines away and is fiddling with his nose. His eye spasms as he tries to hold Kim’s gaze. “But I suppose I was mistaken. Good night, Lieutenant Vicquemare. See you on Monday.”

Jean doesn’t give him the chance to take more than a step before he bites out, “Don’t you mean _Satellite-Officer_?”

Kim thinks about the handkerchief. The nervous look on Harry’s face every time Kim brings up him going back to work. The almost giddy smile when Kim agreed to join Precinct 41 on that coast.

He clears his throat and says, “Yes, I suppose I do. My apologies.”

Jean looks at him with a rictus grin that is uncomfortably familiar. “Don’t worry about it. I’m sure it won’t be for much longer, anyway. Now that _you’re_ here—”

Kim wants to leave. Wants to get out before this man says something he’ll regret once he’s sobered up. But then Jean’s face freezes and his eyes go distant, his gaze turning inwards, and Kim’s muscles relax again.

“Nothing will change, Satellite-Officer Vicquemare,” Kim says, voice steady and clear. He leaves no room for interpretation. “I am not interested in dismantling anything here. I just want to help.”

“Nothing will change,” Jean repeats under his breath before his eyes sharpen on Kim’s once more.

The hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

“So you _aren’t_ going to accept Harry as your partner?”

And there it is: the thing he has tried to avoid since Harry insisted he was his partner instead of Jean. Back in Martinaise, it was easy enough to shrug off the conflict. Though they were partners for the investigation, he knew he would go back to Precinct 57 and back to working alone, while Harry would go back to his partner. 

But now he is at 41 and Pryce has made it clear that unless there is extenuating circumstance, _all_ officers are assigned a partner. No exceptions. It is too dangerous in Central Jamrock for any of them to be working alone.

He never said outright that he intends to pair Harry and Kim, but the insinuation is there nonetheless.

“He never asked me,” Kim says, pushing his glasses up his nose.

Jean’s hand is gripping a _frontenis_ ball tight, rhythmic. In the hand of another man, Kim might assume that he wants to lob it at him. But Kim sees the way his leg jitters and jolts even as he leans back in his chair, ankle crossed over his knee and the tip of his toe pushing against his desk to make him bounce, bounce, bounce back and forth.

He is trying to keep himself under control, but the high is hitting.

“He hasn’t asked you _yet_ ,” Jean says, his voice bitter. He scratches at his beard, at the scarred skin of his cheek. “He will. So are you saying you will tell him no?”

Kim’s eyes flick over to where the sergeants still wait outside, throwing paper balls onto the floor like pétanque boules. They are trying to appear casual but they are watching the two of them with shrewd eyes.

Débardeur eyes. 

Kim swallows a sigh and shrugs the slipping bag back up. “You seem to be very sure he will ask me.”

“Wash enough shit and piss off a grown man and you stop being a stranger.” For a moment or two, Jean doesn’t seem aware that he has spoken. Then a mask of self-righteous anger slams over his entire form. The space around him curdles. “He will. He’ll take his hand off his prick for just long enough to cling to your coattails before he sinks back into his hole.”

Kim just watches as the venom oozes from him. He shakes like a dying man, gripping the arm of his chair. His silence only seems to rile him up further, making him talk like he’s pleading for a loss of sanity in front of a judge. “The man you saw out there, Lieutenant—that’s not Harrier Du Bois. That’s a—a fucking— _construct_ —a puppet that can walk and talk like a man but only when it’s been fueled up with booze. He’ll run dry eventually, Lieutenant. He always does. He always—he _always_ does. You can try and try and—he’ll take everything and—” 

Jean stops, breathless, before he shakes himself out of his stupor, his eyes wide and embarrassed as though Kim has walked in on him in the shower. “Lieutenant. I—”

Kim just watches him. Under his eyes, he collapses in on himself, bit by bit.

“Please, just. Please be careful. Harry isn’t—he isn’t—”

Jean never finishes that sentence, but Kim understands it anyway.

“Thank you for your concern, Lieutenant Vicquemare. I will take it under consideration. Now, if you’ll excuse me?” Kim turns for the door but stops with his hand on the doorknob. He battles with himself, but in the end, he has to say it. He owes it to more than just himself.

“Lieutenant Vicquemare—Jean.”

The lieutenant is already watching him warily. Perhaps this isn’t the first time he’s heard what Kim is about to say.

“Whatever you choose to do in your free time—that is no one’s business but your own. But I will never walk into this room again and find you doing lines. Am I clear?”

Jean just nods, looking away. His face is flushed.

“I’ll see you on Monday, then.”

There is no response except the endless tapping of his foot against the desk.

Kim leaves, not bothering to acknowledge the sergeants.

So much for getting off on the right foot.

So much for an easy transfer. So much for being able to _work_. 

His foot is heavy on the pedal as he drives home that night, radio thrumming in the hollow of his chest. His hands are aching by the time he screeches into the parking bay across from his apartment, panting into the orange-tinged darkness. His heart is racing and he _needs_ a cigarette—a whole box—a whole fucking carton—but he can’t. He knows he can’t. Harry will have heard the Kineema. He’ll be waiting for him. Waiting to _welcome_ him _home_.

Kim can’t do it.

He tries.

He sits in his MC and he tries _so hard_ to gulp in the icy air and put out the fire burning inside of him but he _can’t_. He has been uprooted and he is left scrambling. He has been so busy looking for warning signs in Harry that he hasn’t noticed them in himself.

It’s too late now. 

He doesn’t have any choice but to shutter off and walk carefully up to the apartment, digging his keys into his palm to center himself.

Harry is waiting for him in the kitchen, surrounded once again by an enormous mess. 

Kim’s vision darkens. Only for a moment and then he remembers to breathe.

“Kim! Welcome home! Guess what I did today?”

He swallows and hangs his jacket up, his arms corded with tension. 

He can’t look in the kitchen. Can’t look over at the living room where Harry has the radio blaring, the noise like glass shards sticking into Kim’s ears. The rest of the house is clean. Harry, once again. 

Harry, who is talking still, even though Kim isn’t looking. He barely hears the word ‘sauce’ before he feels so violently ill that he says, “I’m not hungry. Thank you. I’m going to sleep.”

He tries to be kind. He hopes he doesn’t hurt Harry, but his vision is swimming and the only escape he has from everything is to close himself in his bedroom. He sits in the deafening quiet with his head in his hands, pressing into his eyes. 

He doesn’t know how long he sits there until the roaring heartbeat in his ears slows and the chill in his bones seeps out, leaving him exhausted and sore from shivering.

He’s so stupid.

He should have just left the office. He took _notes_. There was no need to bring the files home. He could have left—fuck it, he could have _never gone_. He could have stayed at 57 where he knew exactly what would happen every single day. He could have just filed the report and said, “Goodbye, Harrier Du Bois. It’s been an honour working with you. Hope you stay sober.”

But it _wasn’t_ an honour, was it? 

It is something else. Something that hovers around his chest, ready to burrow in like a parasitic insect with beautiful wings.

He doesn’t know whether to crush it or let it alight.

And the not knowing is worse than anything.

His head throbs. His stomach gnaws, acid in his throat. He hasn’t eaten anything all day. 

He doesn’t know if he can force anything down now.

He’s so tired, but his mind is racing through the sludge. Stumbling over itself, running on fumes. 

Cigarette. He needs his cigarette.

At least one thing he can control.

He wants a hundred but he will smoke _one_.

But even when he unfurls himself, he can’t move to the door. 

Harry is out there.

Or maybe he isn’t.

His stomach churns harder at the thought of Harry leaving because of him. He knows it isn’t his _fault_ even if he has, but the residual meltdown is caustic. 

This is ridiculous. He’s just going to go out there and smoke his cigarette and apologise for his rudeness. He is going to eat food. Then he will go to bed and sleep off the rest of the panic hangover. 

When he wakes up, he will figure out what to do to stop this happening again.

> PERSONAL — Do research into carer’s support techniques
> 
> WORK — Make preliminary outlines for each case
> 
> ERRAND — Pick up the new holographic tags from the tailors
> 
> WORK — Sew them onto uniform
> 
> ~~WORK — Tell Harry about what happened~~

He can’t do that. He _can’t_ do that.

He has to, surely.

Jean is still Harry’s partner. 

_Would you have said something if he wasn’t?_

He doesn’t know.

He’s put up with a lot worse.

Or maybe it’s just a matter of respect.

 _Jean respects you_. _Even if he doesn’t like the thought that Harry might be getting better. The respect is still there._

What can he do? He needs this to work out. He doesn’t want to believe that he has uprooted his entire life only for it to get washed away in the first rain that comes along.

He’s being _ridiculous_.

Probably just hungry. 

He will think more clearly in the morning. He needs food, tabac, and sleep. 

The promise he makes to himself is the only thing that gets his feet off the floor. He _will_ think on what to do in the morning, he just has needs to take care of first.

He half expects Harry to be waiting on the other side of the closed bedroom door, but he is sitting on the couch, head slung over the back and eyes closed. His legs seem too long for the space between the couch and coffee table, one knee bent and leaning wide while the other shoves under the table. His hands—strong and square, the fingers surprisingly long—are clasped over his stomach, pinkie worrying the base of his third finger on his left hand.

Kim’s eyes travel the length of his neck, from the hollow to the birthmark on his left side that is only exposed when his hair is out of the way to his Adam’s apple, bobbing softly with a swallow. 

His beard is growing back. It is already long enough for the bristles to look soft. It smoothes out the patchiness of his complexion, making the ruddiness near his cheekbones look jovial rather than concerning. It probably helps, as well, that his hair is clean. When it was greasy, it wasn’t the worst Kim has ever seen, but now that it’s washed he can see streaks of grey and amber and gold that glint under the lamplight. 

When Kim’s gaze inches back down his face, he realises that Harry is watching him.

The light catches off his grey-green eyes even underneath heavy lids and for a moment, Kim is dizzy, as though something has pushed all the air further apart. He locks his knees but can’t look away, trapped in this thin space between them. 

His watch beeps—the half hour.

Harry’s eyes flick down to it and suddenly Kim is free to move. Free to escape over to the window and his cigarette, which he digs out of his pockets with fumbling hands. 

He takes a second to let the tremble go out of them before tapping a cigarette from the pack and propping it between his lips. He goes to light it before his heart skips, sending a wave of hot regret through him.

Harry isn’t trying to join him.

He’s still down on the couch.

Kim hadn’t realised until this moment that Harry had become part of his ritual. Somewhere between them standing atop the Whirling-in-Rags and this window, this room, sitting on this floor laughing together, Harry has been woven in. New rituals have formed around him like sunflowers turning to the light. Their meals, their nights together, Kim giving him his—

 _Fuck_ —his _medication_ —

“Harry—” Kim rasps, the rest of his words dying inside his mouth when he turns.

Harry is right behind him. 

That skip goes again in Kim’s heart but he forces himself to look in Harry’s eyes. 

He’s—hurt. Worried. And something deeper. Deeper than Kim can place. Comes from that well of sadness that sometimes floods and overtakes him.

“Harry, I’m—”

 _‘I’m sorry_.’

_‘I’m sorry I’m better at being alone.’_

_‘I’m sorry I can’t process affection from someone who hasn’t made me work tirelessly for it.’_

_Is that what you’re going to say?_

_You’re going to_ open up _? Talk about_ yourself _?_

“I’m just going to go get your medication now.”

_Of course you aren’t._

He stalwartly ignores himself, making to step around Harry, but sucks in a breath when he catches him by the elbow. “I’ve already had it,” Harry says, his voice low and hoarse. When Kim just stares, his brow furrows. “I know I’m not supposed to. I just figured it was better to self-medicate tonight than to…”

Kim’s insides squirm. Harry’s hand is so warm on his bare skin that he has to suppress a shudder. “It won’t happen again.”

Harry is silent.

Kim wants to say it again just to reinforce it. Make sure that he hasn’t lost his footing.

But Harry’s eyes are soft on his and his hand is moving, brushing gently along the length of his arm and leaving goosebumps in its wake. Kim tries to shove the hunger down, tries to hide it behind a mask of utter composure. 

Until Harry’s hand crests his shoulder and rests—ever-so-slightly—against the side of his neck. His fingertips ghost along the buzzed hair at the nape.

Harry watches him. Waits.

The question hangs between them: is this okay? Am I allowed?

Kim lets out a quick exhale and that seems to be answer enough.

He wishes he could think of any reason for why he doesn’t need the hug that Harry pulls him into, then, but the moment that he is surrounded by Harry’s arms, he stops thinking. His arms are just as strong as they look, holding him tight enough to steal his breath and warm him all over.

No. More than that.

Inside of him, the warmth melts through atrophy. _Inside_ , that hunger is roaring back, desperate, oceanic.

It has been years since he’s been touched like this. Held like this.

Longer still since someone has _wanted_ to.

As soon as he realises that he hasn’t moved for several long moments, Kim locks his arms around him, squeezing him back hard, hands steepling into the meat of Harry’s back. He shivers at the push of Harry’s hand into his spine, pulling him closer, closer, his thumb pressing into his vertebrae. The tickle of his new beard against his neck. 

“Don’t promise that, Kim,” Harry says, his deep voice vibrating against Kim’s chest. “I was just worried. About you.”

Kim shivers because Harry shivers back.

And then he knows.

 _He’s hungry, too._ _Both of you_ starving _for this_.

Kim holds onto him tighter.

“I know,” he whispers roughly, unsure if he is responding to Harry or himself. “I know.”

Harry strokes a circle into his back and he squeezes his eyes shut, wanting to arch into the touch. “Then I’ll be in the bedroom if you need me.” Leaning back, Harry slips his arms from around Kim, giving his shoulder a comforting squeeze as he smiles sadly. “Just—whatever it is. Don’t beat yourself up, Kim. You’re the best man I know.”

Kim’s eyes ache deep at their root at Harry’s words, but they are dry as a bone. His heart hurts with need as he watches Harry turn to leave, and no matter how strong he tries to be, he can’t stop himself from saying,

“Stay.”

Harry stops, brows twisted as he looks back at Kim.

“Stay with me,” Kim says again, speaking directly from somewhere at the back of his head. Somewhere deep and terrifying and out of control. “Please.”

They lock eyes for what might be forever and what might only be a heartbeat. And then Harry nods, turning back to come stand next to him at the window. 

His fingers may be shaking as he holds out a cigarette to Harry, but he doesn’t say anything about it, and for that Kim is grateful. 

The moment they both take their first inhales of tabac, Kim feels himself settle. Harry is closer tonight than he has ever stood before, his shoulder brushing against Kim’s as they lean over the sill. Kim can smell macadam and his own soap on Harry’s skin. Dirt and trash dances in the wind under a pool of lamplight. 

Peace rises up underneath the mire.

Harry stands with him silently, his cigarette held lazily between his lips. Kim gets a flash of blood on those lips, dribbling down his chin, spat onto the concrete floor of a bunker after dreaming of his ex. 

A part of Kim wonders what it’s like to love someone like that. A love so dear that the loss of them hollows you out. Leaves you aching for them day and night. Grieving someone who is still alive. 

He has never loved like that.

At one point, he thought he loved his last partner with that kind of fervour. But with the benefit of hindsight, he sees now that it would have never worked out. Both of them were career men, practically in relationships with their jobs. In the end, they just drifted apart until the separation seemed like the more practical thing to do. Kim sometimes still misses the feeling of arms around him at night, but never the man himself. 

Sometimes he thinks that he must be too cold to love.

That love is made for men like Harry, who throw themselves into everything no matter how small. He imagines Harry being in love and sees a man who would walk the length of Le Caillou just to bring his lover back her favourite flower. 

But maybe that is why men like Harry burn out as hard and fast as they do.

_Or maybe that is why he still has a spark left in him when he should have guttered out by now._

He has the horrible urge to ask Harry about her. 

He swallows it down. He has seen what happens to Harry when he thinks too closely on his past.

_Avoiding things isn’t healthy._

Neither is blacking out. 

Besides, even if he is curious, he isn’t going to be the one to dredge it up. If Harry wants to talk about her, then Kim will listen. Otherwise, he will shove his inappropriate curiosity down. He has denied Harry any insight into his own personal life; why should Harry allow him his?

And so Kim and Harry stand in comfortable silence until his body gives in to the exhaustion and they go to bed.

Kim crawls under his covers and curls into a ball, unfinished thoughts buzzing around his face. 

Harry shifts in the bed against the opposite wall. His breathing slows. Evens out.

Kim shivers against the chill of his sheets. The wall he faces is so cold that his breath bounces back icy. 

“Kim.”

Harry’s whisper is barely loud enough to catch above the sound of pipes groaning in the wall.

Kim’s ears strain, his heart galloping for no reason.

“Mm?”

“Tonight, there was...something I wanted to talk to you about.”

Kim presses the flat of his hand against his sternum. “Alright.”

“Sorry for waking you up. I’ll tell you in the morning.”

“I wasn’t sleeping.”

Even Kim can hear the exhaustion in his own voice.

“Oh. Then. I guess I should just tell you.” 

Harry takes a breath. Another. He is steeling himself for this and Kim draws his legs further into his body.

“I do have somewhere else to live.”

The words don’t make sense at first, because Kim was preparing for something much worse. And then Harry continues, sounding uncertain in the darkness. 

“I found my house keys in my locker at the precinct. I’m not sure exactly where it is, but I can find out. I—wanted to tell you. But the longer I put it off, the harder it was and then you were so upset after your first day that I just—”

“Harry.”

Harry makes a sort of helpless noise in the back of his throat.

“Go to sleep,” Kim sighs, finding an odd comfort in Harry’s confession. He knows, then, that he has to tell Harry about Jean. But not tonight. They are both tired. That is a conversation better had with sleep and coffee in them.

“But—”

“We can find it tomorrow. If you want to stay there, you can. I will bring over your medication every night. If you don’t, you will still have a place here. My offer was not conditional on there being no other roof for you to stay under.”

Harry sighs as well, though it sounds muffled. There is a palpable relief in it that warms Kim.

“‘Kay. Tomorrow. G’night, Kim.”

“Goodnight, Harry. Sleep well.”

Harry hums doubtfully, but shifts on his bed and goes silent. His breathing evens out once more. Grows heavy.

After a few more minutes, a soft snoring starts. 

Kim lays in bed listening and wonders what has slipped loose in him. 

Something has changed and tonight was just the fallout for ignoring it.

It’s just there outside of his reach, though.

Harry snuffles into his pillow and mumbles something indignantly before settling once more.

Kim closes his eyes and listens.

His heart beats.

Harry breathes.

The butterfly—the venomous insect—the swallow flitting back and forth across the pale cliffs—of his thoughts alights.

Whatever it is that he wants…

Wherever else his life takes him…

He wants Harry there beside him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: Harry has a nightmare and Kim helps him with his apartment
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/TellCosy)/[tumblr](https://tellcosy.tumblr.com)


	4. Breakthrough Imminent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry has a rough time at his old apartment and an even rougher time after it, even if it's something he needs to do to heal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys so much for reading! Sorry this one took a bit longer, it definitely ran away from me. 
> 
> CW: suicide ideation, dissociation

  
  


VOYAGER ROAD — Here you are again. Back on the corner of Voyager and Main. The ground is cracked and broken underfoot. So real that you could count the ants marching the distance from their nest to a dropped cup of mango ice cream. The air is mild and warm, but close. The rains will come later that day, as though Revachol knows her Innocence has left her.

DORA INGERLUND — “Oh, Harry. I was nobody’s Innocence. Much less Revachol’s.”

VOYAGER ROAD — The video rental store sign looms overhead, its phone number like a mantra in your head. Like a poem made entirely of numbers. Each number, each combination of numbers, means something in your eyes. The number of nights you had with her. The number of fights you had. The number of years it will take until you stop having this dream. The number of times you tried to make it right. The number of times you failed.

A poem of pain.

DORA INGERLUND — “You’re always so *dramatic*. We had more good days than bad.”

YOU — But the bad days were *bad* and the good days were long gone by the time it was over. She gave up long before you did. You didn’t let her go. Didn’t love her enough to just let her go.

DORA INGERLUND — “You still don’t.”

> **1.- “This has nothing to do with you.”**
> 
> 2.- “I didn’t have a choice in this. You took my choices away.”
> 
> 3.- “That makes no sense. I love you. Shouldn’t I fight to keep you?”
> 
> 4.- “To hell with you. You aren’t worth this.”
> 
> 5.- “You’re right. I *don’t* love you. I want to make you suffer for what you did.”

DORA INGERLUND — “Why would you say something like that? Of course it does. Look at you, Harry. You’re playing house with a man who is only helping you out of a sense of duty.” Dora’s hair cascades over her shoulder as she tilts her head. It catches the sunlight even though the clouds cover the sky. “Do you think you can replace me with him?”

> 1.- “No one can ever replace you.”
> 
> 2.- “This isn’t about Kim, either.”
> 
> 3.- “Kim isn’t just helping me out of a sense of duty. He *likes* me.”
> 
> 4.- “Nothing is happening with Kim. I don’t love him. I love *you*.”
> 
> **5.- “Replace you like you replaced me?”**

DORA INGERLUND — “*Replaced* you? I suppose, from your perspective, that’s what it looks like. But for someone to replace someone else, they have to *displace* them. There was nothing left of you in me, Harry. He didn’t replace you. He simply moved into an empty home where love once lived.”

Dora sighs magnanimously.

“That is why I worry for your partner. He doesn’t know that you have no room left in you for anyone else.”

> **1.- “I’m not trying to get Kim to love me.”**
> 
> 2.- “You were right. Kim doesn’t care about me, so what does it matter?”
> 
> 3.- “Kim won’t leave me like you did.”
> 
> 4.- “I’m not a homo-sexual. Kim and I aren’t like that.”
> 
> 5.- “Kim knows how fucked up I am. He’s helping me.”

DORA INGERLUND — “It doesn’t matter whether you’re *trying to* or not, Harrier. You’ll give him everything you have. You’ll change yourself into what he wants to see. You’ll break yourself in half if he asks you to.” Dora reaches out and touches your cheek and it burns like acid, like dying. 

“It’s the only way you know how to love.”

> 1.- “Love is about compromise. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
> 
> 2.- “Kim isn’t asking me to change. I’m asking *him* to help me.”
> 
> 3.- “I thought you said I couldn’t love anyone else anymore. But I love Kim? Which is it?”
> 
> **4.- “I told you, this isn’t about you *or* Kim. This is about *me*.”**
> 
> 5.- “What does it matter if I kill myself for someone? I’m worthless anyway.”

DORA INGERLUND — “Of *course* it’s about you. You. And me. And Kim. And Jean. And every person you’ve ever wronged. You’re living just to make things right. But what happens when they forgive you? What happens when you burn away the alcohol? When you pass the last of the drugs? What happens when you see that there is nothing left of you that isn’t *me*?”

Dora smiles serenely as you shake with fear. 

“Wake up, Harry.”

> 1.- “No, I’m not letting you leave me again.”
> 
> 2.- “I can’t keep doing this. This has to stop.”
> 
> 3.- “What do you mean there’s nothing left of me that isn’t you?”
> 
> 4.- “Fuck you, I’m my own man.”
> 
> **5.- “You don’t know me anymore, Dora. I’m not the same man that loved you.”**

DORA INGERLUND — “Oh, *Harry*. I hope—for his sake—that you’re right. Otherwise you won’t survive this again. You won’t survive

THE PALE SEA SWALLOWING YOU WHOLE, ARMS WIDE, A MOTHER CRADLING YOU TO HER BREAST, HELD ALOFT IN THE WOMB OF ETERNITY, OF ALL

YOU — You stare at Dora as her face shifts impossibly, layered over itself sickening and terrible. Blue eyes—blue-green—brown—long gold hair—glowing lungs—blood red lips—birthmarks—sly smile—cruel smile—mascara-streaked cheeks— 

DORA INGERLUND? — YOU CANNOT SURVIVE THIS. BUT YOU MUST FIGHT. YOU MUST FIGHT, MY DARLING.

“Shh, Harry, you’re alright. You’re just dreaming.”

> **1.- “Wait, what do you mean I won’t survive this?”**
> 
> 2.- “Who are you?”

The face shifts again. Settles into a coy, world-weary smile framed by straw-gold hair. 

MISS ORANJE DISCO DANCER — Klaasje takes a hit off her cigarette, long long fingers bent toward her palm. Her hair shadows her eyes until there is only darkness. “None of us will, baby. Not like we are now. Off we go…”

ONE AND ALL.

VOYAGER ROAD — The form before you cannot hold its shape, melting into the puddles of rainbow-slick oil that coat the ground. The world is no longer in multiple dimensions. It is flat. A painting. A window. An empty frame. Rain pours down the canvas, smearing her face into a many-limbed flower, blinding white.

> **1.- “Who are you?”**
> 
> 2.- Kneel before her.

MISS ORANJE DISCO DANCER — “A lover.”

DORA INGERLUND — “A teacher.”

DOLORES DEI — “A mother.”

??? — AN END. A BEGINNING.

YOU — The ghostly sensation of pressure gathers at your chest. You look around you, but there is no one. Suddenly, your body is in two places at once: standing before the amalgamate and shifting towards a warm weight beside it. The downpour deafens the world, but you can still hear the sound of birds singing and then—a voice— 

“Wake up, Lieutenant.”

No. Not *a* voice. 

*Kim’s* voice.

And you jerk awake, the image of the flower-headed deity imprinted behind your lids as you blink away the dream, gasping. 

KIM KITSURAGI — The lieutenant is sitting at the edge of your bed, knee digging into your side and hand braced beside your head, caught on single strands of your hair. His other hand presses against your sternum and you grab at it instinctively, taking comfort in the warmth. The *realness*. Kim doesn’t shift in front of you. His voice doesn’t boom inside your head, your chest, your bones. He’s real. He’s here with you.

“Sleeping well?”

He is wearing a wry smile.

EMPATHY [Medium: Success] — But his eyes are concerned. He must be able to feel how fast your heart is beating.

> 1.- “I’m fine. Sorry for waking you up.”
> 
> 2.- Shake your head and focus on not being sick all over him.
> 
> **3.- “It was her. Again.”**

KIM KITSURAGI — The lieutenant’s face gives nothing away; his voice is flat. “Dora, you mean? I figured as much. Was it the same dream as before?”

> **1.- Tell him the truth.**
> 
> 2.- Say you were dreaming about him.

YOU — You swallow down the thin bile that arose in your throat during the night and nod. “The same as before, only this time…”

> **1.- “It wasn’t just Dolores Dei.”**
> 
> 2.- “She told me I was going to die.”
> 
> 3.- “She told me I was trying to make you love me.”

KIM KITSURAGI — Kim’s eyebrows raise. “Is that who she looks like normally?” At your nod, he hums. “Your episode in the church makes sense now.” He tilts his head and settles back onto the bed a bit, easing the dig of his knee against your side and the pull on your hair. 

His hand remains on your chest, though.

“What did she look like this time?”

> **1.- Explain the deity to him.**
> 
> 2.- Tell him that she looked like Dick Mullen. [Lie]
> 
> 3.- Say that you don’t want to talk about it.

YOU — You think hard to remember exactly what happened in the quickly-fading dream. “She’s always just—sunlight—at first. But this time, instead of just Dolores, her face shifted between her and Dora and—”

You suddenly remember who else was in the dream, stomach churning ominously.

“And Klaasje.” You see a flash of the deity once more. “And—something else. It had a flower. For a head.”

KIM KITSURAGI — Kim’s eyes sharpen behind his glasses. “What did the flower look like?”

INLAND EMPIRE [Challenging: Success] — He wants to know if it was a *may bell*. 

EMPATHY [Challenging: Success] — He is worried that this is a sign of something to come. 

INLAND EMPIRE — As he should be.

> **1.- [Conceptualization - Challenging 12] Do your best to describe the flower.**
> 
> 2.- [Drama - Easy 9] Tell him it was a may bell. [Lie]
> 
> 3.- “I’m not sure. It was just a white flower.”

**CHECK SUCCESS**

YOU — You wrack your brain to remember every last detail of the flower deity, words spilling from your mouth. “It was a bright white, with a thin stripe of pink bisecting every one of the six teardrop-shaped petals. Stamen protruded from the center with a rust-yellow pollen. It was surrounded by clusters of the same flower, all connected to one thick stalk. Those were much smaller, though. Almost—”

You reach for a fitting word, but the best you can come up with is, “Deferential.”

ENCYCLOPEDIA [Legendary: Failure] — You used to know what this flower was called, but you can’t remember it anymore. The name seems very far away, as though it has been packed away and forgotten in a box in the attic.

KIM KITSURAGI — Kim listens patiently to your description before the tension melts from his stiff shoulders. He gives you a quick grin. “Not a flower I know, unfortunately. No amateur *dream psychology* for us today.”

He flips his hand to give yours a squeeze. “What else happened?”

> _1.- “It wasn’t just Dolores Dei.”_
> 
> **2.- “She told me I was going to die.”**
> 
> 3.- “She told me I was trying to make you love me.”

KIM KITSURAGI — A grim shadow settles over him. “Did she say how?”

YOU — You shake your head. “Just said that I wouldn’t survive what’s coming.”

HALF-LIGHT [Medium: Success] — No, she said that *no one* would survive.

INLAND EMPIRE [Medium: Success] — ONE AND ALL.

YOU — You feel sick. A hole behind your sternum opens up. Radio static hisses in your ears. The healed hole in your hip aches deeply, a sounding call for all the bone injuries and scars that litter your body. 

PAIN THRESHOLD [Medium: Success] — Don’t worry, brother. I’ve got you. All your nerves might be firing off at once, but it’ll pass. 

> **1.- “Kim, I think she was talking about the Pale.”**
> 
> 2.- Keep it to yourself. 

KIM KITSURAGI — The lieutenant’s frown deepens, his grip on your hand tightening to the point that it hurts. 

PAIN THRESHOLD [Challenging: Success] — But it’s the *good* kind of hurt. The kind that helps me get you through this.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY [Medium: Success] — Wonder if he would hurt you more if you asked him to.

EMPATHY [Easy: Success] — Of course he would. He would do anything for you if it meant you would stop being in pain.

VOLITION [Easy: Success] — But maybe *don’t* ask him that. Surefire way to make things go from casual hand-holding after a nightmare to *very weird*.

KIM KITSURAGI — “What do you mean she said you would die to the Pale?”

LOGIC [Medium: Success] — Again. She said...you wouldn’t survive *again*.

COMPOSURE [Challenging: Failure] — What does that mean? How could you have died to the Pale? You’re sitting right here with Kim. 

RESILIENCE [Medium: Success] — Boxes stacked against the walls of an apartment ready to be moved out of. Not sure what you’ll need on the other side, so you don’t get rid of any of it. 

We were the first to get shut away.

> **1.- Tell Kim.**

YOU — You squeeze Kim’s hand back, looking into the eyes of the man who has seen the worst of you. It takes you several aborted tries before you can get the words out.

“My—the—my—skills—are saying that something happened to me before. Maybe—in the Pale.”

You take a deep breath and hold it in your lungs, but it fails to cleanse the feeling that there are spores taking up residence inside them. You let it out at once, speaking at the same time.

“I think that’s what Dora was telling me.”

KIM KITSURAGI — The lieutenant is silent, his eyes searching yours.

PERCEPTION (Sight) [Easy: Success] — The dawn is here, just as it always is when you wake up from your nightmare. The sun is rising.

CONCEPTUALIZATION [Medium: Success] — The light creeps up Kim’s bare shoulders and neck, as though it is a lover taking his time with him. Kissing every inch of his body before it reaches his eyes, lighting the flecks of amber inside his dark iris. A hidden aureole only shown to those who have seen him at this hour. 

RESILIENCE [Easy: Success] — And now, you. A secret he has shared with you.

KIM KITSURAGI — The lieutenant blinks and the moment between you dissipates like a hand through smoke. “Well. I’m not saying you haven’t been through the Pale—you’re certainly obsessed with it enough to have gone skipping beyond the Porch.”

He clears his throat and eases off your hand, turning once again to your chest. Just for a moment. Just one comforting press that feels like he is reaching for your heart before he slides off the bed, speaking over his shoulder as he moves to the closet. 

“Even if you did, though—you didn’t exactly *die* there, did you? But dreams have a way of being dramatic like that, I suppose.”

He pulls his undershirt over his head, exposing the slim lines of his back and the angular bone of his hips just over the waist of his shorts. 

ELECTROCHEMISTRY [Challenging: Failure] — FDJKAJFEIUCIUAHLKFNAFDKAL

VOLITION [Medium: Success] — Easy there, disco man. He’s just getting dressed. He’s not going to proposition you. You’ve seen plenty of other men a lot more naked than that.

> **1.- Have I?**
> 
> 2.- How’s that possible if I’m not a homo-sexual?

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT — Oh, yeah. Plenty of guys in the gym and work locker room with their dicks out. There’s a reason you aren’t shy of taking your clothes off, champ.

VOLITION — Yeah, that might actually have more to do with the—general *you* than working around men. 

> **1.- Wait, gym? I used to work out?**
> 
> 2.- Can’t be me. Look at this gut; I’m a couch potato.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT — *All the time*, bud! One reason why the ex liked us so much. We could pick her up over our shoulder like a sack of flour. 

ELECTROCHEMISTRY — You could try that with Kim and see if he’ll do to you what *she* did to you.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT — Whoah, whoah. Just because they weigh just about the same doesn’t mean we go around lifting up other guys. That’s against the *bro code*.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY — Do I *look* like I care? I’m just trying to get him laid.

VOLITION — Not by the lieutenant, you aren’t. We aren’t fucking this up this time.

SUGGESTION — Besides, you don’t have a chance, even if you *are* a homo-sexual. Kim thinks you look like a 58-year-old.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY — Oh...that’s right. He also said you look like shit after you shaved.

**-1 MORALE**

VOLITION — Who cares if he thinks you’re ugly? You aren’t trying to get with him. You’re trying to get the balls to ask him to be your partner. He was alright with you being ugly in Martinaise. He’ll be fine with it in Jamrock, too.

> **1.- [Composure - Formidable 13] You’re right. It doesn’t matter. I just need to be a good cop.**
> 
> 2.- Ask Kim what you can do to look better.

**CHECK FAILURE**

YOU — It still hurts. It hurts a *lot*, actually. You used to be easy on the eyes and now you’re like a living nightmare for everyone who sees you. A walking warning against alcohol and drugs. The anti-tabac groups might as well fly their advertisements from your face.

**-1 HEALTH**

KIM KITSURAGI — “Lieutenant? Are you alright?” He’s looking over his shoulder at you, fully dressed in a white t-shirt and well-worn pair of jeans. You have no idea when that happened.

His brow lifts. “Was there more to the dream?”

> _1.- “It wasn’t just Dolores Dei.”_
> 
> _2.- “She told me I was going to die.”_
> 
> **3.- “She told me I was trying to make you love me.”**

KIM KITSURAGI — The smile that Kim gives you is warm and amused. “Did she? Well, come on then. You can drape your coat over puddles for me on the way to the market.”

> 1.- “Of course, dear.”
> 
> 2.- “As long as we can hold hands again.”
> 
> 3.- “Is there something funny about the thought of being with me?”
> 
> **4.- “You think I would ruin my suede like that?”**

KIM KITSURAGI — The lieutenant slowly raises an eyebrow, giving his amusement a sharper edge to it.

“Are you suggesting my affections aren’t worth a bit of ruined suede?”

> **1.- [Rhetoric - Easy 9] “You’re worth a hundred ruined blazers, Kim.”**
> 
> 2.- [Physical Instrument - Medium 11] “Or I could just carry you over the puddles.” Subtly flex your muscles.
> 
> 3.- “Damn right. That coat’s been with me through hell and back.”
> 
> 4.- Apologise for suggesting that he’s worth less than a second-hand blazer

**CHECK SUCCESS**

KIM KITSURAGI — The lieutenant’s eyes soften again, though the smirk does not leave his face. “So, about 100 reál then.” He gives a performative sigh, smoothing his hair back and sitting to pull his socks on. “Good to know the market value, I suppose.”

DRAMA [Easy: Success] — He is joking, milord. He isn’t actually upset with you. 

EMPATHY [Trivial: Success] — Although he may reserve the right to bring this up again later.

RHETORIC [Challenging: Failure] — You had a perfect opportunity to bowl him over with your charm and squandered it. 

ELECTROCHEMISTRY [Medium: Failure] — Kind of hard to charm someone when you know for definite that they aren’t interested. 

VOLITION [Easy: Success] — A shocking amount of self-awareness from the peanut gallery today. I did try to get you to see that it doesn’t matter, so can we please just get dressed before you hurt yourself even more with this?

ENDURANCE [Medium: Success] — Seconded. That kind of pain is harder to bounce back from.

> **1.- [Volition - Medium 10] Get up and get dressed**
> 
> 2.- Go back to bed and sleep off the bad feeling

**CHECK SUCCESS**

YOU — It takes a physical gathering of your will to push aside the dark cloud that threatens overhead, but you manage. Barely, maybe, but results are always more important than how much effort it takes. You heave your legs off the side of the bed, propping your elbows on your knees and scratching at your barely-there beard. 

You can feel the deep grooves of your wrinkles and scars that have been exposed by shaving. The weak upper lip. The bloating of your cheeks and nose. The loosening skin around your jawline.

Your stomach bottoms out in slow motion.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY — Maybe we *would* have been better off— 

VOLITION — Don’t you fucking dare. He’s *trying*, you son of a bitch. Don’t you drag us all down with you.

INLAND EMPIRE — You can see it, though. You can see the world that would have been, had you managed to end your life. Jean and Judit would have stayed for the case. Kim wouldn’t have taken so long to solve it with them. The tribunal never would have happened. He would still transfer, but not have to deal with your addiction recovery. 

It’s a world of efficiency and predictability. No more Harrier Du Bois to fuck everything up.

**-1 MORALE**

VOLITION — It’s also a world that *doesn’t exist*. Nothing would have been better off with you dead. The world is not a scale for life and death to tip either way.

Now get up, Harry. 

One day at a time, remember?

COMPOSURE — You can do this. Just take it one step at a time.

AUTHORITY — To attention, lieutenant double-yefreitor. On your feet.

SHIVERS — All around you, people waking up. Breathing the dawn into the streets. You are vital. Lifeblood. You must keep going. You are not alone.

KIM KITSURAGI — “Harry.”

YOU — You peer up with tired, blurry eyes and see Kim standing over you. You feel every flaw on your body in stark relief, under his gaze. Every liter of alcohol still sweating through your pores, staining your shirt. You feel the ghost of every filthy thing you’ve ever done like thumbprints on your body, ready for exposure under UV. 

You look away.

KIM KITSURAGI — “Harry, look at me.”

AUTHORITY [Challenging: Failure] — You don’t stand a chance against that voice. He’s not going to let you out of this room until you face him. 

YOU — You clench your jaw, but there’s no escaping the pull of Kim’s authority. Your eyes flick up as though testing the waters of a hot bath, but when they meet his, you are trapped. Dunked into boiling water, you are helpless in the magnetism of his full attention.

KIM KITSURAGI — The lieutenant bridges the gap between you, squeezing your shoulder. “I can’t say that I know what it’s like to be in your situation, but I can say that it *will* get better. You are strong.” 

His lips quirk up for a brief moment. 

“You even talked about her without passing out this time.”

EMPATHY [Easy: Success] — He thinks you’re upset because of Dora. He doesn’t want to push you about her, but he thinks it would be healthy to talk.

RESILIENCE [Easy: Success] — It *would*. Let out the pressure drop by drop until you aren’t bursting with her. 

> 1.- Tell Kim that you aren’t upset about Dora.
> 
> **2.- [Reaction Speed - Medium 11] Ask him why he can’t understand your situation.**
> 
> 3.- Thank him and get up to get dressed.

**CHECK SUCCESS**

YOU — “Wait, Kim, what did you mean by—”

KIM KITSURAGI — As though the lieutenant has his own supra-natural ability to tell what you’re going to say, he cuts in with, “Come on now, Lieutenant Du Bois. Breakfast time. We have a long day ahead of us.”

He holds a hand down to you.

YOU — You try to protest, but the quirk of his brow snaps your mouth shut before you can so much as make a peep. 

SAVOIR FAIRE [Medium: Success] — This is a good moment for patience, lieutenant. Sometimes hitting things head on will only result in a migraine.

SUGGESTION [Easy: Success] — He wants to talk to you, but it is uncomfortable for him. Ease into it slowly and he’ll be a frog in a boiling pot of water.

EMPATHY [Easy: Success] — As long as you remember that no means no. He isn’t a *suspect*. He’s your partner.

VOLITION [Medium: Success] — Not yet he’s not, so try to use some finesse. No secret is worth losing his trust.

YOU — You take a breath and accept that you aren’t going to get your answer just yet, choosing instead to take Kim’s offered hand up and get yourself dressed. By the time you get into the kitchen, Kim is already frying up some eggs. You reach around him and grab the kettle, filling it up and catching a yawn behind your hand.

INTERFACING [Medium: Success] — The two of you weave around each other smoothly as you prepare your halves of the breakfast. You, making toast and coffee, and Kim, making the eggs and fried vegetables. You almost don’t notice it, but when you dodge a hot pan as easily as breathing, it lights up your chest with warmth. 

This feels natural.

So natural that when you sit down to eat together, something clicks in your brain and you start speaking before you even check how the odds stack against you. 

YOU — “Kim,” you say, wondering how the hell this is happening and what words might next come from your mouth, “will you be my partner?”

VOLITION [Trivial: Success] — Uhhh?? What? Is happening?

COMPOSURE [Trivial: Failure] — Don’t know, don’t know, don’t know

RHETORIC [Trivial: Success] — Did he just ask that without passing the check??

ESPRIT DE CORPS [Trivial: Success] — He did.

YOU — You have no idea what is happening, but Kim is looking up at you now, chewing thoughtfully on his egg and toast.

You might be sick. You weren’t ready for this conversation. The egg speared on your fork plops sympathetically down to the plate.

ESPRIT DE CORPS [Medium: Failure] — Bet you wish I had some advice for you now, but I’m afraid dispatch is out to lunch.

KIM KITSURAGI — After what feels like an eternity of chewing and taking a sip of coffee and running his thumb across his lips to remove a crumb left behind, Kim *finally* responds.

“Do you mean life partner or…?”

> 1.- Wheeze pathetically.
> 
> 2.- Laugh it off and tell him you didn’t mean anything by it. [Lie]
> 
> 3.- “Yes, hetero-sexual life partners. I’m tired of being alone.”
> 
> **4.- Tell him that you’ve requested to be his partner.**

YOU — You have no idea how to say it with any amount of aplomb, so you just spit out, “Work. I—requested—to be your partner.” 

KIM KITSURAGI — Kim, clearly deciding that you deserve to be punished for some unknown crime, simply tilts his head the tiniest bit and studies you.

PERCEPTION (Touch) [Easy: Success] — You are sweating. The force of his inspection makes your heart pound hard enough to be felt from where your hand rests on your thigh. 

RHETORIC [Medium: Success] — Don’t say anything. Just let him look. You’ve already had a rough enough morning. Time to play it cool.

COMPOSURE [Medium: Failure] — You are *not* cool, though. You are a washed-up cop who recently drove his MC into the sea, lost his gun and badge, and barely scraped through a gunfight. You have a *hole* in you. You can’t walk without a limp.

VOLITION [Challenging: Success] — And Kim probably still gets dizzy from his concussion. What’s your point?

HABITUS [Medium: Success] — There is something between you and Kim. Last night, he asked you to stay beside him. He wouldn’t have accepted your comfort if he didn’t feel it, too. 

EMPATHY [Easy: Success] — In fact, *you* were the one who pulled away. He doesn’t think you’re washed up.

YOU — The memory of last night returns, the feeling of holding Kim tight enough that your hearts beat together draping a gentle comfort over you. Your temperature evens out, the hummingbird pace of your pulse slowing. 

Kim wanted you to stay beside him.

He held you just as tight as you held him.

He may not think your face is pretty, but he appreciated *you* being there.

KIM KITSURAGI — And as though he was waiting for you to come to this conclusion, Kim hums softly in the back of his throat.

“Of course I will, Harry.”

YOU — You aren’t even a little bit ashamed of the sigh of relief that pops out of you, then. A smile climbs its way from your heart to your face and Kim returns it without hesitation, his eyes crinkling.

> **1.- “So what do you want to do first today, partner?”**

KIM KITSURAGI — Kim takes another sip of coffee, running his finger along the rim as he says, “I have some errands I need to run. I really do need to go to the market, but you don’t have to come if you’d rather stay and catch up on sleep.”

SHIVERS [Medium: Success] — The sea air still reaches these streets, even so many kilometers away from the shore. Gales from the pressure changes sweep the street trash into the sky like a dog shaking off fleas, making the weekend market-stall clerks’ jobs easier. The stones under their feet warm long before the sun hits them, eager to shine prettily for every patron despite their scuffs and cracks.

ENCYCLOPEDIA [Medium: Success] — The weekend markets in Revachol West are well known not only isola-wide, but amongst other isolas as well. They are a collection of every artisan and craftsman, every technician and farmer, every law-abiding citizen and those that live somewhere under the radar who refuse to give a cut of their profits to be stocked in chain stores. It is a tapestry of the city’s successes and failures, voices crying out like seabirds claiming territory. 

You can find *anything* there. 

> **1.- “What errands do you need to do? Maybe I can help.”**
> 
> 2.- Offer to do the errands for him instead.
> 
> 3.- Stay at the apartment and get some more sleep.

KIM KITSURAGI — Kim cuts through a particularly large chunk of vegetable, spearing a little piece of everything onto his fork like a mini shish-kebab. “Just things for the house. Also my new patches. Cleaning supplies for your old apartment.” He pops the forkful of food into his mouth and frowns as he chews, tucking it into his cheek to add, “Unless you want to pick up more clothes while you can. Not sure when our next day off will be.”

YOU — You think about the grey blob of unfocused memory waiting for you somewhere out there. An apartment that may or may not house any clothes you own.

LOGIC [Challenging: Success] — Lejtke’s Conundrum. Something that both does and does not exist in the third dimension until perceived.

RHETORIC [Easy: Success] — Lejtke’s Old Clothes.

HABITUS [Easy: Success] — If these clothes *do* exist, it would be better to collect them instead of buying more. Less waste to clutter Revachol’s gutters and landfills. 

CONCEPTUALIZATION [Medium: Success] — And if you were evicted in the meantime, then you can just buy some better clothes with Kim. Ones that reflect your *artist’s soul*.

> **1.- “I want to see if there are any clothes in my apartment first.”**
> 
> 2.- “Good idea. I don’t want any part of my old life, clothes included.”

KIM KITSURAGI — The lieutenant nods. “Good idea. Less wasteful.”

His brows raise. “You’re still welcome to come with me, though. As long as your hip is fine.”

He doesn’t say it with any humour, but it still sounds like he’s teasing you.

> **1.- “My hip is *perfectly fine*. Could run to the market instead of drive, if I wanted, actually.” Make a show of rotating your leg despite the twinges of pain.**
> 
> 2.- Point out that he’s probably still hurt from the tribunal, too.
> 
> 3.- “You’re right. I should stay home.”

KIM KITSURAGI — “I’m sure you could, but then you’d be tired by the time you get there, and I’m not carrying everything myself.” Kim’s eyes dart quickly along the length of you as both of you stand up to take your plates into the kitchen, but thankfully, he doesn’t mention your slight limp.

YOU — The two of you make quick time to the market despite the patches of thick ice still resting on the shadowed streets. It is already beginning to get crowded by the time you arrive, though, so you quickly decide to split up and do the errands separately. Kim, over to grab his patches and the food, and you, the cleaning supplies and a map to find your apartment. A twinge of a shiver runs down your spine as you look at the filmy-eyed old man manning the kiosk and you decide to ask him a few harmless questions.

Just as you thought, he quickly directs you to the spot on the map where your key will fit. Close to the precinct and not far from the looming shadow of the 8/81, you can’t take your eyes off of it. You mumble a thanks to the man, but only get as far as a bench before collapsing onto it, peering down at the map in your hands. You have to hold tight to the flimsy paper your heart is beating so fast, and you know that you aren’t as ready to do this as you thought you might be.

Still, when Kim finds you sitting there half an hour later and asks if you’re ready, you say yes.

You head back to the Kineema, parked far up the hill that overlooks the aggressive slope of the Pox down to the coast, both deadly silent. You want to say anything to break the tension, but you just can’t quite find the words. Instead, you hand the map over to Kim and let him drive you closer to the place where you used to exist. 

FLÂNEUR [Challenging: Success] — When you take the last turn onto the street circled on the map, you see a path open up before you, faded and winding like a drunk man stumbling home at three in the morning. You step out of the Kineema and put your soles in his, seeing him from a better place, but knowing he’s still there all the same. A man drunk enough to die of alcohol poisoning but his body still moves. Still points itself home, applies thrust, and hopes to any gods listening that he will make it there in one piece.

An aerostatic ship floating through the Pale.

YOU — You can feel Kim’s eyes on you, but you are helpless to the homing instinct, following it around into a back alley and then up a flight of rickety metal stairs that were definitely a fire escape at some point in their history. At the top is a heavy, rusted metal door that opens with a ghoulish groan. 

HALLWAY WITH THE FLICKERING LIGHT — A vivid nightmare waits for you behind the door. A multi-patterned, multi-coloured carpet sits loosely beneath your feet, puckered and bubbled like a poorly fitting mask. The walls are a dull red that contrasts with the blue moulding. There is a rope switch for a ceiling light that hangs just out of reach, the end frayed and unraveling out of its decorative knot. The only light comes from the open door and the barred window at the end of the hall. Something stinks enough to make your eyes water.

PERCEPTION (Smell) [Easy: Success] — Burning styrofoam and white mold spores. 

VISUAL CALCULUS [Medium: Success] — There. The source of the smell. An ancient takeaway container stuffed behind a radiator. The lettuce is so old that it looks like algae.

INLAND EMPIRE [Challenging: Failure] — Did *you* put this here?

VOLITION [Easy: Success] — Does it matter? 

KIM KITSURAGI — “I think it’s safe to assume that this one is yours.” 

You look away from the heat-twisted box to Kim and see him standing in front of a door with a miniature disco ball hanging from the doorknob. The reflection has several holes in it where the tiny plates have fallen off, mostly where it rests against the door.

LOGIC [Easy: Success] — It’s been banged up by a slammed door its entire life.

INLAND EMPIRE [Medium: Success] — A broken mirror in a nightmare. Your teeth will fall out soon, you will be late for a class you never signed up for, and you will watch someone you love walk away from you for the thousandth time. 

The door is dripping with black sludge, *oozing* from underneath the uneven crack at the bottom. A splinter parts from the grain and folds back, taking more bits of wood with it until there is a gaping hole in the middle, fist-sized. The latch curls around more splinters, rising like teeth exposed in a viper. 

VISUAL CALCULUS [Trivial: Success] — This door has been broken into. Fixed. Abused in a fit of drunken pique. Fixed. Slammed hard enough to loosen its hinges, causing the uneven hang. 

Fixed.

But it still bears the marks.

VOLITION [Trivial: Success] — You don’t know what memories wait for you behind that door, but you know they aren’t good. You need to be *prepared*.

KIM KITSURAGI — Kim is watching you, eyes unreadable in the dim light. “Are you ready?”

COMPOSURE [Challenging: Failure] — No. Your upper lip is sweating and your hand slips on the doorknob as you grip it tight enough to hurt, the key fumbling in your swollen fingers. You aren’t ready for this.

VOLITION [Medium: Success] — You’re as ready as you’ll ever be.

> **1.- Turn the knob.**

THE YELLOW APARTMENT — The door whinges like the last breath of a corpse as you push it open, exposing a single-room living space with sickly yellow walls and patchy, yellow-brown shag carpet. There is a door barely ajar, a toilet visible through the opening. There is no couch or table; only a bed sticking out from the far wall at an odd angle, as though you once tried to move it into another position and gave up halfway. A radio on the floor beside the bed, sitting on the windowsill above a towering pile of clothes, half of which are sorted and folded while the other half encroaches upon them.

Stacks of books and magazines are being used as surfaces for more takeaway containers that overflow with cigarettes and plastic wrappers. A pile of dishes sits in the sink, the sagging cupboards above it open and bare. A tiny fridge still hums with struggling life beside a stove covered in more dirty pots and pans. The surface of it is clean of crumbs and dirt, though you can see the inside is coated in black grime.

The walls hold no pictures.

PERCEPTION (Sight) — It is strewn with detritus and yet shockingly bare. So small that you know you could reach your arms out and nearly touch both walls at its narrowest point. 

PERCEPTION (Smell) — The largest presence in the room is not the sight of the trash, but the smell. Above all else is the sickly, poisonous sweetness of rot, but astringent tabac is a close second. Underneath that you can still catch a cocktail of bodily fluids and waste from the bathroom, layered with the aquatic overnotes of damp and mold. 

The parfum of your misery.

PERCEPTION (Taste) — It is there, at the back of your throat, as well. Sliding its slimy fingers into your mouth and coating your tongue. You have to make a decision between continuing to taste it or getting the full effect of the smell by breathing through your nose.

You only deliberate for a moment before choosing not to taste this anymore.

PERCEPTION (Touch) — The walls are sticky with years of caked-on smoke and grease from frying pans. It is cold and clammy. Deathly.

PERCEPTION (Hearing) — Silent as a tomb despite the many other apartments living below your feet.

SHIVERS — They are nearly dead as well. Clinging to life only by the routine of keeping their brick and mortar bodies vertical. People do not live in these houses. 

People come here to die.

KIM KITSURAGI — “It isn’t as bad as I expected.”

YOU — You look over at Kim with eyes so dry that they have begun to ache.

KIM KITSURAGI — He gestures around him, dropping the sack of cleaning supplies onto the patchy carpet. “It could be a lot worse, honestly.”

> 1.- “*How* could this be worse?”
> 
> 2.- Just nod. You trust Kim to know this stuff.
> 
> **3.- “It looks like a crime scene. I’ve seen dead men in apartments just like this.”**

DRAMA [Medium: Success] — You weren’t aware that you weren’t lying when you spoke, sire, but it is the truth. You have seen this before many times. You have seen men with your face sprawled in a coffin of a house, dead long before their hearts stopped beating.

ESPRIT DE CORPS [Medium: Success] — Kim has seen it, too. He knows exactly what makes someone get to this point. He knows the difference between a messy, but living house and the slow miring decays like this.

This is not going to scare him away.

KIM KITSURAGI — “Mm, it is admittedly a familiar sight.” He glances around the apartment, his eyes darting between the different points of interest the same way he sized up the backyard of the Whirling.

“Fortunately, that means we are well-equipped with how to get through this.”

> **1.- “Are we?”**

KIM KITSURAGI — “We are.” He crouches down and digs out the trash bags as well as a few extra plastic bags from the shop, which he hands up to you. “Come on, detective. It hasn’t been so long since you were a junior officer that you’ve forgotten how to clean up the scene, surely.”

> **1.- Glance around you uncertainly. “18 years is a long time even without brain damage.”**
> 
> 2.- “You’re right. Let’s just get on with it.”

KIM KITSURAGI — The lieutenant raises an eyebrow. “Whoever said you have brain damage?” 

He shoves the plastic bags into your reluctant hands without waiting for an answer. “At least you’ll get to collect some of your precious tare.”

YOU — You take the bags, watching as Kim slides off his driving gloves and tucks them in his pocket, putting on a pair of blue cleaning gloves. He gets started without another word, dumping the containers of food and wrappers into the trash bags. 

It takes you another couple of seconds to do more than just stand there and stare at the conspicuously empty walls. When you do, it is slow, creeping, like your body hasn’t quite defrosted fully. You approach the nest of bottles near the bed first, squinting when the sun glares off a reflective label. You collect each one carefully, trying to avoid any memories that might be attached to them. You are partially successful, most of the images of laying askew in bed all alone, drowning yourself liter by liter glancing off and disappearing back into their boxes. 

When you pick up the last of the bunch, though, its sunset label glinting— 

PERCEPTION (Smell) [Medium: Success] — Copper and more of the sweetness of decay. You know this smell better than your own name. Blood. 

PERCEPTION (Sight) [Trivial: Success] — There is blood on the bottle. A smudge, nothing more.

INLAND EMPIRE [Challenging: Success] — The blood of a man who did not deserve his punishment but received it nonetheless. You came home after the jury and could not get the blood off of your hands. You scrubbed as hard as you could, but it welled up beneath your skin. Poured out into the sink like a fountain. His eyes stared at you from the mirror, terrified and drunk. You vomited in the sink. And then in the toilet. 

You drank enough to die that night. Fell trying to go to the bathroom and cracked your head open on the sink. You watched your own blood spill out of your mouth, out of your hands, out of your head, and you were *relieved*.

But someone came. 

No...

**BREAKTHROUGH IMMINENT**

...*Jean* came.

Jean has always come to you when you fall. For almost six years, he has been the crutch you stumble on, the hand you take to bring yourself back up. And every time you did, he fell down a little bit further. But it was fine, because you could take your turn helping him up, too. It started so slow that neither of you noticed that you weren’t climbing anymore. By the time you did, both of you had circled so far down the drain that all you could do was cling to the other and hope he went down with you.

Whether out of spite or something else—something under the skin and unspoken—both of you held on until you made the decision to cut him loose.

That first night in Martinaise, you sat in the cafeteria and looked at your partner who looked back at you with a despair in his eyes so familiar that you felt something snap.

Two days later, you flew over a delta of the River Esperance, hoping to god that you would not feel the landing.

**THOUGHT COMPLETED: The Ashes Left Behind**

**+2 Empathy towards Jean Vicquemare**

**+1 Esprit de Corps**

ESPRIT DE CORPS [Easy: Success] — Seven kilometers away, Jean Vicquemare sits all alone in the lieutenants’ office at the 41st Precinct of the RCM, bent over a case file that was filled in by his partner. He pores over every word, every note, double-checking. Triple-checking. He can barely see the words anymore, his eyes are so tired, but he keeps reading. He has to. He has to know what happened. He has to know what has changed.

EMPATHY [Challenging: Success] — He doesn’t know if he wants to believe that it’s real or if he wants it to be just another false positive. He has been burnt by your phoenician rebirths so many times that he can’t trust his instincts anymore.

VOLITION [Easy: Success] — He’ll see, soon enough.

KIM KITSURAGI — “Harry?” The lieutenant looks worried when you look over at him slowly, gutted by the memories attached to this innocuous bottle. “You’ve been staring at that bottle for several minutes. Are you okay?”

> 1.- “I don’t know. This isn’t easy.”
> 
> **2.- “I think I owe Jean an apology.”**
> 
> 3.- “Fuck this. Just let someone else clean this shithole up. I’m done.”

KIM KITSURAGI — Kim crooks his head, pushing his glasses back up with the back of his wrist.

> 1.- Explain what happened in The Unsolvable Case earlier this year.
> 
> **2.- [Empathy - Easy 8] Take a moment to look at Kim first.**

**CHECK SUCCESS**

KIM KITSURAGI — The lieutenant is watching you patiently, unbothered by your close attention or the ruins around him. He is so completely unfazed, in fact, that you realise that he must have expected this. Not only the state of your old home, but your introspection. Your thoughts turning to Jean.

He knew this would happen and was simply waiting for you to bring it up.

EMPATHY [Medium: Success] — Letting you decide what to remember and what to forget.

VOLITION [Medium: Success] — You needed to do this. Needed to come to this place and see that you aren’t this man anymore, even if you share the same past. Even if you still feel like he’s there waiting inside of you, he doesn’t make up the whole of *you* anymore.

RESILIENCE [Easy: Success] — You needed to bleed this out before it festered into failure again. Even if it’s uncomfortable to look at yourself from the outside, it has to be done.

INLAND EMPIRE [Easy: Success] — That other Harry—the one that reached for a woman that didn’t love him anymore because he couldn’t see himself living without her—the one that used his partner mercilessly, cruelly—died for years before he crashed into the sea.

This is just his crime scene.

> **1.- “How do you think he died, in the end?”**
> 
> 2.- Go back to cleaning.

KIM KITSURAGI — The lieutenant blinks, taken off guard by your question. “Who?”

> 1.- “The victim.”
> 
> 2.- “The perp.” 
> 
> **3.- “The man who died here.”**

KIM KITSURAGI — Understanding dawns in Kim’s eyes and he looks around the room slowly, his lips pursed.

“Sadness.”

ENDURANCE [Trivial: Success] — A jolt of pain streaks from your heart to your gut, radiating through your limbs as though you jumped down several feet and landed poorly. 

VOLITION [Trivial: Success] — It only takes a moment for you to steady, though, oddly comforted at Kim’s bluntness. 

> 1.- “Not because of alcohol poisoning?”
> 
> 2.- “Not because of loneliness?”
> 
> **3.- “Not because his ex left him?”**
> 
> 4.- “Not because of his job?”

KIM KITSURAGI — Kim shakes his head. “I think he was sad about her for a long time, but at some point, he realised it was less about her and more about how he didn’t know how to cope with the sadness.”

YOU — You swallow past the lump in your throat, looking away from the warmth in Kim’s eyes. 

> **1.- “‘At some point’?”**

KIM KITSURAGI — You don’t have to look at him to hear the smile in his voice. “Some point very recently.”

> **1.- [Volition - Challenging 12] “I think you may be right. I think this man may have hurt a lot of people along the way, though. Including his partner.”**
> 
> 2.- Let it drop.

**CHECK SUCCESS**

KIM KITSURAGI — The lieutenant hums. “Living is hard and being cruel is easier than being kind.”

There’s a pause for just long enough that you feel compelled to look over at him again. When you do, you see a tension in his eyes ease. 

“Lucky him, that he died before he had to say sorry for it.”

YOU — You bare your teeth in a grimace. “Guess I’ll have to do it for him, huh?”

KIM KITSURAGI — Kim nods solemnly. “I think he would want you to.”

> **1.- “I thought you said you didn’t like how much I apologise.”**
> 
> 2.- “Fuck Jean and everyone else. They didn’t help me when I needed it.”

KIM KITSURAGI — A smile creeps into Kim’s eyes. “I said I don’t approve of unnecessary self-flagellation. This is a different situation entirely.”

> **1.- “Do you think he’ll even let me apologise?”**

KIM KITSURAGI — “I couldn’t possibly say.” The lieutenant finally shoves the trash he’s been holding into the bag and you walk over to do the same with your bottle. You don’t think Frittte would appreciate taking tare with blood on it.

“Khm.” You glance up to see a line appear between Kim’s brows. “That is to say. I believe he may still be—upset.”

DRAMA [Easy: Success] — He is not lying, my lordship, but he is certainly trying to cover something up. I say press him about it.

RHETORIC [Easy: Success] — He doesn’t seem averse to speaking about it. It should be fine.

> **1.- “Did something happen with Jean?”**
> 
> 2.- Say nothing.

KIM KITSURAGI — Kim stands up, shaking the trash bag to spread it out along the bottom and make room. For a long time, you aren’t sure if he’s going to answer you, both of you busying yourselves with getting all the trash into bags and the dishes clean. It isn’t until you are folding through the pile of possibly-clean, possibly-dirty clothes that he finally speaks.

“I found him in the lieutenants’ office.”

> 1.- “Reading my report on Martinaise?”
> 
> **2.- “Oh, man. Was he...you know.” Mime a jerk-off motion.**
> 
> 3.- “He *is* a lieutenant.”

KIM KITSURAGI — Kim stops dead, the half-folded t-shirt in his hands slouching out of its tidy folds. You fear that your joke has offended him at first, but then you realise that his shoulders are shaking with silent laughter. 

RESILIENCE [Easy: Success] — Oh, what you wouldn’t do just to make him laugh.

KIM KITSURAGI — When he finally speaks, his voice is only slightly unsteady, but enough to bring a smile to your face. “Why was that the first thing you thought of?”

> **1.- “It wasn’t, but you know. You hear rumours.”**

KIM KITSURAGI — “*Do* you?” He flicks his brow, finishing the fold of your shirt. 

INLAND EMPIRE [Legendary: Failure] — The radio-static memory of rough breathing and shuffling under bed sheets from an adjoining motel room in Revachol South interferes in your station for just a single moment before flickering back out. 

> 1.- “What the *hell* was that?”
> 
> **2.- Clear your throat and try to focus on what you were saying.**

YOU — “Khm.” And then you do it again, because your throat is still sticking to itself. “Khm. Anyway. You were saying?”

KIM KITSURAGI — Kim narrows his eyes at you the smallest bit, but chooses not to comment. “I was trying to tell you about Lieutenant Vicquemare.” He glances away for a moment, dropping the shirt onto the pile and pausing before removing his glasses to give them a wipe. You wait for him to finish, but his fingers just keep swiping at the glass.

“Harry, when you spoke to Trant...did he mention anything about Lieutenant Vicquemare’s drug use?”

VOLITION [Easy: Success] — His WHAT?

KIM KITSURAGI — Perhaps sensing your shock, Kim pops his glasses back onto his face and gauges your expression, lips tense. “I’ll take that as a no.” 

He sighs.

“I wasn’t sure if I should tell you, but I didn’t want you to come across it yourself without warning.”

ELECTROCHEMISTRY [Medium: Success] — That son of a *bitch*—

And like a direct conduit between the skill and your mouth, you are saying it again, aloud.

YOU — “That *son of a bitch*—all that questioning he did—he had the gall to mock me when he’s—”

KIM KITSURAGI — Kim interrupts the rise of your righteous indignation with a hand held up. When you stop, silently fuming, he gives you a pointed look. “To be clear, me finding him once does not indicate *addiction*.”

EMPATHY [Medium: Success] — The rest of the sentiment is left unsaid, but you hear it all the same: Jean’s possible addiction is still inconclusive, whereas *you* are a confirmed addict. Even if he is in the same boat as you, you still deserved the digs he gave you.

VOLITION [Easy: Success] — Like hell you did. 

ELECTROCHEMISTRY [Easy: Success] — Yeah, if anything, he should be apologising to *you* now. He can do that by sharing whatever he’s got.

VOLITION [Easy: Success] — Wait, no— 

KIM KITSURAGI — “Harry, I didn’t tell you this to widen the rift between you.” You come back out of yourself to see Kim frowning slightly. “I only wanted to give you a warning. I know I didn’t appreciate walking in on that. I can’t imagine it would be easier for you.”

VOLITION [Challenging: Success] — No, that wouldn’t be easy for you at all. 

ENDURANCE [Challenging: Failure] — It’s already more than a little painful to imagine. 

REACTION SPEED [Medium: Success] — Why wasn’t it easy for Kim to see, though? He doesn’t have the history that you and Jean have.

> 1.- “Thank you for the warning, Kim.”
> 
> **2.- Ask him why it wasn’t easy to see Jean.**
> 
> 3.- “He’s still an asshole for making fun of me.”

KIM KITSURAGI — But once again, you barely begin to ask the question before Kim turns away and scoops up the pile of clothes to donate. His voice is strained as he speaks, louder than usual. “We should take these and the pots and pans to the donation center before continuing to clean, that way we will have less to work around.”

EMPATHY [Easy: Success] — He won’t meet your eyes. He is moving quickly through the room, piling anything he can fit in his arms. His movements are stiff, though. Barely controlled. 

He is uncomfortable.

RHETORIC [Challenging: Failure] — You aren’t sure what it is about your question that has upset him, though, so you can’t begin to think of how to fix this.

> 1.- [Rhetoric - Formidable 13] Try to ask him about it again.
> 
> **2.- Stay quiet and help Kim carry your stuff to the Kineema.**

YOU — Hauling the pots and pans under your arm, you toss the trash bags over your shoulder and follow Kim out, dumping them off along the way to the Kineema. Both of you sit in uncomfortable silence the entire drive, not even the sultry warbling of the woman on JazzFM working to disperse the funk between you. You find yourself sinking into absence, sighing silently as the streets creep by, traffic slowing you almost to a crawl. 

You knew this was going to be difficult, but you didn’t think it would be this kind of difficult. Not much to do with your past—you could barely remember him, anyway—but more to do with your present. Your future. 

Jean, really.

You have no idea how it’s going to work between you. You want it to, even if he *is* a jackass. You have to make this work this time, no matter how difficult, and that includes clearing the bad blood with your ex-partner.

EMPATHY — He is a jackass for a reason and you know that reason now. He wasn’t always like this, just like you weren’t always bad.

AUTHORITY — All you have to do is show him that you still deserve your rank and he’ll fall in line. 

SUGGESTION — He won’t. Satellite-Officer Jean Vicquemare is a reasonable man to everyone else, but there’s something between you that nullifies his professionalism. You are exempt from his respect.

RESILIENCE — He has his limits, just like everyone else. In your despair, you poured yourself into him until there was no room left for *him*. Give him time and space and he will empty out.

ANIMA — Only after apologising. 

HABITUS — But you’ll have to really mean it. He won’t take a Sorry Cop apology from you. He’s heard enough of that already.

VOLITION — Is it even a good idea to apologise? Wouldn’t it be better to simply lathe that relationship down to the bare minimum?

ESPRIT DE CORPS — You cannot abandon your partner. He came back for you and now he needs you to support him.

VOLITION — We aren’t stable enough for that yet. If you try to lift him up, both of you will fall even further than before. 

LOGIC — Kim is here with you now. This will not be like before. A triangle can hold under pressure where a line will fall.

YOU — Speaking of Kim, you are suddenly hyper-aware of the fact that the MC is no longer in motion and the lieutenant’s eyes are on you. You glance around yourself quickly, taking in the fact that you have not only arrived at the donation drop-off, but the bags and pans are already gone from the tiny storage space behind the seats.

KIM KITSURAGI — “Back with me, Harry?”

His tone is light but there it is again, in his eyes: real concern.

EMPATHY [Trivial: Success] — Of course he’s concerned. You just dissociated so hard that you didn’t even realise that you were helping him carry everything.

> **1.- Dissociated?**

ENCYCLOPEDIA [Medium: Success] — The state of consciousness where the mind splits into discrete functions. In your case, instead of separate mental profiles, you simply retreated fully into your mind while your body continued on. This can be a sign of high stress levels and underlying, high intensity panic attacks. Occurs frequently in those with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.

> **1.- How do I know this?**

INLAND EMPIRE [Challenging: Success] — This is not your first ride into the wild frontier of sobriety. You have gone to therapists and listened to them explain these things to you in cold, clinical terms. You have tried and tried and tried and they have never been able to help you in the way that you need help.

> **1.- How is that possible?**

LOGIC [Easy: Success] — Because they treated you for the wrong illness. They medicated you to get rid of *us* instead of that black hole in your head.

> **1.- In my head? Not in my heart?**

ENDURANCE [Easy: Success] — There is hardly a difference with you, brother. Ignore one... 

VOLITION [Easy: Success] — ...and fail the other.

PERCEPTION (Touch) [Trivial: Success] — A warm hand encompasses yours where it rests on your knee, drawing you back into your body breath by breath. 

PERCEPTION (Sight) [Trivial: Success] — You blink and the world starts to filter through to your senses again, tethered by the sight of Kim’s deep brown eyes and his warm, gloveless hand.

KIM KITSURAGI — The lieutenant sighs softly, visibly relieved. “Harry, we don’t have to go back if you don’t want to. We can turn in your key another day and let them charge for the cleaning.” His voice is low, rushed.

EMPATHY [Easy: Success] — Like he is trying to get through to you before you disappear again.

> **1.- Reassure him.**
> 
> 2.- Tell him you’d like to stop now.

YOU — You shake your head. “I’m fine, Kim. I’m not bothered about the apartment. Just...thinking.”

KIM KITSURAGI — Kim’s lips are pressed into a line, but he doesn’t pull his hand away from yours. “About what?”

> **1.- [Drama - Medium 11] Tell him the truth.**
> 
> 2.- Tell him you don’t want to talk about it.

**CHECK SUCCESS**

YOU — You clear your throat, nervous about how unsure you sound just with that noise. “It’s just—Jean. I need to talk to him about what happened between us. Make things right with him.”

KIM KITSURAGI — The lieutenant watches you intensely for several moments before a puff of air that is just this side of a laugh escapes his lips. “It took you almost twenty minutes to decide that again?”

YOU — Your cheeks warm, but you don’t try to stop them. You can’t help but smile when he smiles. “Not *just* that. I was also asking my—my…”

You stop, hesitating fully. You know Kim says he is okay with your skills, but it’s easy to be worried about it, especially after their revelation.

But when he just nods lightly, encouragingly, you take a breath and continue. “My skills. I was asking them how I knew the word dissociation.”

KIM KITSURAGI — “And did they tell you?”

YOU — You nod. “I’ve been to therapy before, apparently. A few times.” You look away, grimacing slightly. “It never took because they medicated me for my skills instead of my—” You think about what they mean by the hole in your head and realise that it can only be one thing. “—my depression.”

KIM KITSURAGI — Kim hums thoughtfully and your eyes return to him, a compass needle to polar north. He is watching you with interest, his brow furrowed. “Which one told you this?”

YOU — You scratch at an old shaving scar on your jaw. “I’m not sure. All of them, maybe? I don’t think I can remember anything that specific yet, but—”

KIM KITSURAGI — Kim’s shake of the head stops you mid-sentence. His brows curl towards each other further. “No. I mean, which of your *skills* told you about this.”

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT [Easy: Success] — Tingles run down your spinal cord, collecting at the base and trickling into your legs.

HALF-LIGHT [Medium: Failure] — Don’t tell him. Don’t talk about us. He’ll think you’re weird, you’re disgusting, he won’ t want to be your partner anymore— 

VOLITION [Medium: Success] — Shut up. Kim is the one who asked. Tell him.

> **1.- Tell him about your skills.**
> 
> 2.- Shake your head and refuse.

YOU — You take a long, deep breath through your nose before speaking. “It was—Inland Empire. That told me about the therapy.”

KIM KITSURAGI — He gives a short hum. “So they have names.”

YOU — You nod, pushing aside the sickness in your stomach. “Good thing they do, ‘cause there’s a lot of them.”

When Kim just watches you, waiting for you to continue, you run your hand through your hair nervously, looking around the street at the people passing by. Some of them glance into the MC, clearly wondering why a police vehicle is parked here. Wondering if something is about to go down and whether they might be able to watch.

“Twenty—” You cut yourself off before you can give the full number, remembering that things have changed now. You don’t know for sure how many new skills there are, but considering there are generally six that share a colour—a flavour in your head—then you can only assume that there will be six of the orange as well.

KIM KITSURAGI — “Twenty? Twenty skills?”

YOU — You shake your head. “Thirty.” A tiny sigh pushes itself up from your gut. “Thirty skills.” You suddenly think of the voices that come to you in the night and add, “And two assholes.”

KIM KITSURAGI — “And every one of them has a name?” You nod again and his lips twist. “It must get—loud.”

EMPATHY [Trivial: Success] — His eyes are soft. Not with pity, but sympathy.

> **1.- Give a grimacing smile. “It *is* sometimes like being in the middle of the precinct.”**
> 
> 2.- Shrug. “It isn’t so bad. They take turns, at least.”
> 
> 3.- Press a hand to your head. “It has been killing me for years now.”

KIM KITSURAGI — His lips relax again, a crinkle of humour at the corner of his eyes. “I can only imagine.” His eyes turn thoughtful, his mouth parting and forming a word before it shuts again.

YOU — “What is it?”

KIM KITSURAGI — He shifts minutely. “Do they know?” His eyes meet yours again. “At the precinct.”

RHETORIC [Medium: Success] — He is asking if *Jean* knows. 

EMPATHY [Trivial: Success] — He is wondering if this is why things went bad between you.

> **1.- *Does* Jean know?**

INLAND EMPIRE — He knows. He doesn’t believe it. You have never hidden us from him, but he has convinced himself that it is the drugs and alcohol speaking.

EMPATHY — He was afraid to believe you because believing that meant that other things—terrifying things—were also possible. Easier to just call you a liar.

> **1.- Tell Kim.**

YOU — “Jean knows but he doesn’t believe me. He thinks it’s just the drugs.” Something about that strikes you as unbearably funny and laughter bursts out of you. Kim lets you howl it all out, just watching you, until you can choke out, “Maybe that’s why he’s such a good detective now, too.”

KIM KITSURAGI — Kim’s mouth twitches as he fights a smile. “Are you suggesting I’m not a good detective, Harrier?”

> **1.- “You aren’t *good*, Kim…”**
> 
> 2.- “Yeah, you’re pretty good I guess.”
> 
> 3.- “Detective? I always thought you were a model.” Wink salaciously.

KIM KITSURAGI — The lieutenant’s eyebrows shoot up. “Excuse me?”

> **1.-** “ **You’re the *best*.”**

KIM KITSURAGI — You almost don’t believe your eyes as you watch Kim’s expression move lightning-quick from shock to an unaffected coolness that is belied by the pink at the tips of his ears.

“Khm. Yes, well. You don’t need to bring out the flattery; I already accepted your partnership.”

> **1.- “Exactly, now I just gotta keep you happy and I’ll be set for life.”**

KIM KITSURAGI — The lieutenant flicks his fingers dismissively in the face of your indulgent smile, taking his opportunity to start the Kineema and head back to your old apartment. After a few minutes of comfortable silence, he huffs out a laugh. 

“I suppose I *will* have to get used to flattery now that I am one of the 41st’s lieutenants.”

> **1.- “Huh?”**

KIM KITSURAGI — Kim smirks. “Oh, has no one told you yet? The 41st is infamous for a lot of things, including having the proportionately highest number of *hunks*.”

> **1.- “Wait, I thought we were known for our higher-than-average violence.”**

KIM KITSURAGI — “That is certainly part of the appeal for some people.”

EMPATHY [Trivial: Success] — Not for him, though. He has made it more than clear that he doesn’t appreciate unnecessary violence.

> 1.- “Oh. Okay.” Change the subject.
> 
> **2.- [Suggestion - Challenging 12] Ask if you’re included in that gossip.**

**CHECK FAILURE**

YOU — Just as the words start to leave your mouth, you remember Kim’s assessment of your age again and choke on your own spit. “So—I am also??”

KIM KITSURAGI — Kim glances over at you as he waits for a family to cross the street. You are very near to your old apartment already; the traffic was much kinder headed away from the center of Central Jamrock. He leaves you to sweat nervously in the silence until you arrive at the building once more.

“I know you are.”

ELECTROCHEMISTRY [Challenging: Failure] — What? *What*? WHAT DOES THAT MEAN? 

LOGIC [Medium: Success] — He most likely means that he knows you, too, are a part of 41 again. 

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT [Easy: Success] — Or he is letting you know that he’s noticed how much of a *hunk* you are, too.

DRAMA [Heroic: Failure] — His tone is even and measured. The words were said friendly enough, but there is no smile or frown that accompanies them. Just a quick flick of the eyes over to yours.

In other words, completely inscrutable. 

You have no clue what he means by that.

VOLITION [Medium: Success] — You’re never going to let this go until you know for sure either way, are you? Just ask him, then.

OLD APARTMENT BUILDING — But before you can scrape together any semblance of conversational choice, Kim is getting out of the Kineema and you simply follow him up. It doesn’t take long to haul down the things you decided to keep; there is very little in the house that holds any potential significance to you. 

(Which is strange, when you consider it, but when you try to dig a little deeper, it just slips through your fingers. So you let it go. You’re getting used to that feeling by now.) 

In the end, all you bring out to the Kineema is the stack of books and magazines by your bed, a cast iron skillet that looks like it’s older than you, and a pile of satin shirts with enormous collars that Kim deemed “salvageable”—most of the matching bell bottoms already abandoned to the donation center when he convinced you that there was no way to subtly let out the seams to give you more room to run in them. You keep a few of the better pairs, anyway.

You do your best to clean up any surface mess, but both of you decide that cleaning the smoke stains off the walls is where you draw the line between courtesy and self-flagellation. So with one last quick sweep to make sure you haven’t left anything, you close the door on your old life, curiously hollow.

KIM KITSURAGI — The lieutenant checks his watch as both of you exit the dingy hallway, leaving the disco ball hanging right where it is.

SHIVERS [Challenging: Success] — It was there when you arrived and will remain once you’ve left, ready to soften the blow of living for the next resident who walks between these walls. A reminder that in the not-so-distant past, the world was happy. 

It may yet return.

KIM KITSURAGI — “Made it in time for dinner. What do you say we leave the keys and a note in the maintenance postbox, drop the Kineema off at home and go grab a kebab?”

> **1.- “Hell yeah, you know a way to a man’s heart, Kim.”**
> 
> 2.- “Are you sure it’s okay that I stay with you until I find a new place?”

KIM KITSURAGI — “Ah, *ma raison d'être*.” His voice is dryly amused. The teeth of his zipper ring out in the chilly spring twilight as he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a pen. “Here. I know you won’t have one on you.”

YOU — You take the pen on instinct, weighing its heft. It is a dark green, long enough to fit comfortably in your hand and sturdy enough that you feel like you could write with it all day long. 

It doesn’t look cheap.

> **1.- “Wow, you’re actually lending me one of your pens?” Wiggle your eyebrows.**
> 
> 2.- “I prefer pens with cryptids on them, but thanks anyway.” Slip it into your pocket.
> 
> 3.- “I don’t really like this colour. Can I use one of your blue ones?”

KIM KITSURAGI — “Khm.” The lieutenant fiddles with his jacket, sliding his cuffs back down over his wrists and zipping it back up. “Actually, that one isn’t mine. I bought it for you.”

EMPATHY [Easy: Success] — He bought it for you so you don’t have to keep asking him for one of *his*.

VOLITION [Easy: Success] — Presents from Kim feel good no matter what the reason. Your chest lights with gentle warmth.

YOU — “Thank you, Kim. I love it.”

KIM KITSURAGI — Kim nods once, stiffly. “Don’t mention it.” He climbs into the driver’s seat of the Kineema, starting it up.

YOU — You tuck the pen away for the moment, opening the passenger side and kneeling on the bench to crane for one of your old notebooks. You can see the metal spiral rings of one of them poking out from underneath the sack of clothes, but it’s just out of your reach.

> **1.- [Savoir Faire - Trivial 6] Stretch your arm and grab the notebook.**
> 
> 2.- Ask Kim to grab it for you.

**CHECK FAILURE**

SAVOIR FAIRE — SHIT FUCK YOUR ASS

ENDURANCE — WHAT? WHAT’S HAPPENED TO YOUR ASS?

PAIN THRESHOLD — The dreaded *cramp* has happened. You reached over in a weird way and somehow managed to pull a muscle.

VOLITION — And that isn’t even the worst part. 

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT — How could it get worse than this??

PERCEPTION (Sight) — By yanking so hard on the notebook that a porn magazine previously hidden inside of it gets dislodged and falls open right behind Kim’s chair. 

REACTION SPEED — Scratch that. A *homo-sexual* pornography magazine.

ANIMA — Oh. *Ohhh*. That certainly makes this easier.

HALF-LIGHT — What? What? Makes *what* easier? What’s happening? Why do you have that?

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT — Oh *no*. 

COMPOSURE — Maybe you should pick it up before Kim sees it. 

HALF-LIGHT — Oh, god, KIM. KIM IS GOING TO SEE THIS.

ANIMA — Good! He should see this!

RESILIENCE — Maybe not *this* but you could certainly have a talk with him about what this means.

HALF-LIGHT — WHAT DOES IT MEAN???

KIM KITSURAGI — “Harry? Are you okay? You’re breathing very fast.”

HALF-LIGHT — RUN OUT OF THE MC RIGHT NOW BEFORE HE SEES THIS.

ANIMA — Don’t be so dramatic. He won’t care. *He’s* homo-sexual, too.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT — Too...he’s homo-sexual *too*. Oh, god. You’re a homo-sexual. You’re a homo-sexual, Harry. You’ve always *been* one. 

ELECTROCHEMISTRY — I *told* you you would like touching Kim!! You don’t care what’s under the hood, Harry! You just wanna *drive*!

LOGIC — The way you look at Kim. The smoker on the balcony. The little skip in your heart when you see a man’s deft, capable hands.

VOLITION — Well. Now you know.

HABITUS — And Kim *is* a homo-sexual, too but it isn’t exactly good manners to come out by showing your partner your old pornography stash.

VOLITION — Just shove it back under the clothes and then you can talk to him— 

KIM KITSURAGI — “Harry? What are you looking at back there?”

HALF-LIGHT — No no no no no nononono

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT — Push him out of the way so he can’t look over your shoulder!

DRAMA — Tell him it’s his!

KIM KITSURAGI — “Oh.”

Empathy [Challenging: Failure] — You have no idea what that ‘oh’ could mean. You can’t hear inflection over the sound of your own pounding heart and you can’t look at him.

You just *can’t*.

KIM KITSURAGI — “Well. It can’t be healthy to be so naked when there’s four feet of snow outside his door.”

HALF-LIGHT [Trivial: Failure] — Wha? Huh?

YOU — “Kim…” You wheeze, your hands gripping to the back of the bench hard enough to hurt. “I didn’t—”

KIM KITSURAGI — “Why don’t we put that back where it was for now, hm?”

> 1.- Nod gratefully and quickly shove the magazine away.
> 
> 2.- Try to explain yourself.
> 
> 3.- Deny that the magazine is yours.
> 
> 4.- Start crying and— 

KIM KITSURAGI — “Harry.” 

His hand is so warm on your shoulder even though you feel like you’re burning with fever. 

You still can’t look at him.

“Put the magazine away.”

> **1.- Silently close the magazine and shove it back under the clothes.**

**THOUGHT GAINED: Deeper Underground**

COUPRIS KINEEMA — The next few minutes pass in a blur. You aren’t too sure what Kim does once you sit down in your seat. The sound of a pen scratches beside you and there is the jingling of keys and then silence as he climbs out. You cease to exist until he returns, climbing inside and blowing on his bare hands before sliding them into his driving gloves and checking his gauges.

CONCEPTUALIZATION [Challenging: Failure] — You desperately want to say something to him—want to make sense of this by pulling the frame out wide enough to see the big picture—but you feel much too big, much too ungainly. Like a bear trying to do ballet.

VOLITION — It isn’t so bad, Harry. You aren’t a different man. You already suspected this.

ANIMA — And being homo-sexual isn’t like *dancing ballet*. 

COMPOSURE — The problem is, you aren’t actually sure what this *means*. Will you have to start acting differently? Wearing different clothes? 

VOLITION — Why would you? 

LOGIC — The evidence is right before you: you discovered this because of a pornography magazine that you already owned. Thus, you have known that you are a homo-sexual before you lost your memory. Who you are right now is who a homo-sexual Harrier Du Bois is.

ANIMA — Wonder what the issue date of the magazine is.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY — You should look. Look right now. You’ll get to see naked men again if you do.

VOLITION — Don’t do that, but maybe it wouldn’t hurt just to check the date of publication.

ENDURANCE — If you do, then you’ll know, and you can stop fretting about it enough to make your heart hurt.

ENCYCLOPEDIA — That would be very useful information to know.

YOU — Unable to stop the cacophony of compulsion, you whirl around and snatch up the magazine again, ignoring Kim’s bark of surprise as you jostle into him.

KIM KITSURAGI — “Harry—what—”

YOU — “I gotta know, Kim.” Your voice is little more than a delirious mumble. 

KIM KITSURAGI — “Know *what*? Are you—why do you need to look at that right *now*? We’re almost home. You can look at it when you’re alone.”

VOLITION [Medium: Success] — Don’t let his assumption get to you. Just flip the magazine over and look.

YOU — Taking a deep breath through your teeth, you twist your wrist and tilt your head until you spot the date of publication hidden at the bottom in the small text.

February ‘45.

VOLITION — Oh.

ENDURANCE — Well. There you have it.

ANIMA — That’s...a while.

RESILIENCE — Long enough that you might have still been with Dora.

LOGIC — This is why it didn’t take you as long to remember homo-sexuality as you thought it might. 

ELECTROCHEMISTRY — Because you’ve always been one, Harry-boy.

LOGIC — Though you definitely remember having sex with Dora. And noticing Klaasje’s breasts. That does seem to muddy the waters a bit, if you are meant to only be into men.

KIM KITSURAGI — “Harry, please. There’s no need to torture yourself over this.”

> **1.- “I’m not torturing myself, Kim. I’m *thinking*.”**
> 
> 2.- Give your head a smack. “If only I could just make it go away!”
> 
> 3.- Throw the magazine out of the window.

KIM KITSURAGI — The lieutenant sighs. “Another thought project?”

YOU — “Mhm. Got it in one, detective.”

KIM KITSURAGI — “And you need to look at porn to complete this project?”

He looks equal parts exasperated and amused when you glance over at him.

YOU — “I’m not looking at the *dicks*. I was checking the publication date.” You grind out a sigh, dropping the magazine to your lap and scraping your fingernails against your scalp. The man on the front—straw-blonde, fair-skinned, and absolutely rippling with muscles—does nothing to strike any of your memories alight, choosing instead to simply smirk up at you endlessly. Text spreads across his pecs, introducing him to you as Jean Holliday, a Suresne idol.

INLAND EMPIRE [Trivial: Success] — The image of Jean in those partially-unzipped acid-washed jeans, shouting insults at you, brings up a slightly hysterical laugh in your throat that you have to swallow.

KIM KITSURAGI — “Something funny?”

He makes a quick turn around a corner and you recognise the street name as one just a few blocks away from the apartment. 

FLÂNEUR [Easy: Success] — All of your wanders through the city this week are beginning to sink in again. They are scratching veins and arteries and capillaries into the empty streets in your head, filling them with colour and life. You are beginning to remember the breath of Revachol and not just her disease.

> **1.- “What if Jean was a male model?”**
> 
> 2.- “This magazine is from six years ago.” 
> 
> 3.- “Why didn’t I ever buy another porn mag if I’m homo-sexual?”

KIM KITSURAGI — Kim makes an aborted noise in the back of his throat that you choose to believe is a laugh. “Yes, what if?” 

> 1.- “Don’t laugh at me; I’m being serious.”
> 
> 2.- Drop the thought and let him drive.
> 
> **3.- “Do you think he’d make a good model?”**

KIM KITSURAGI — The lieutenant is quiet for the few minutes it takes to get home, but it feels thoughtful more than awkward. 

EMPATHY [Medium: Success] — He is taking this question seriously, which is a pleasant surprise. You might have only been joking, but this means that he isn’t going to dismiss you out of hand.

KIM KITSURAGI — It is only once the two of you step out of the garage and start off for the kebab place that he answers you. “I’m not sure there’s any good answer to that. He is certainly handsome, but not in a conventional way.”

> 1.- “You like ‘em blonde and blue-eyed, then, huh?” Nod wisely.
> 
> **2.- “What’s the conventional way to be handsome?”**
> 
> 3.- [Suggestion - Godly 16] - “So do you think *I’m* handsome?”

KIM KITSURAGI — “Oh, probably something like the man on that cover, I suppose.” He fiddles with the stud fastening on his glove before he seems to catch himself and clasps his hands behind his back.

RHETORIC [Challenging: Failure] — There’s something else he’s saying underneath his words, but you can’t quite pick up on it.

> 1.- “Is there something you aren’t telling me?”
> 
> **2.- “So is that what I would have to look like if I wanted to attract a man?”**

KIM KITSURAGI — Kim seems to find this funny, as well, his eyes crinkling just the barest amount. “I’m not the right person to be asking this, Harry. I’m afraid my tastes run more towards how a man carries himself rather than what he looks like.”

COMPOSURE [Challenging: Failure] — So that rules you out, Mr. Digs-in-Trash.

AUTHORITY [Medium: Success] — Don’t listen to him. You’re completely in control of yourself and thus, everyone around you. You’re the boss.

KIM KITSURAGI — “Khm.” 

You look over at Kim, taking in the sight of him waiting stiffly at the crosswalk, his back ramrod-straight. He doesn’t look over at you when he asks, “Is that something you’d like to do? Attract a man?”

YOU — You suddenly realise that this is the moment. The moment that you have to make a decision. You can blow off the implication of having the magazine or the way your heart raced just at the sight of Kim’s exposed back. 

Or you can face up to it.

VOLITION — You need to get this right. This is one of the most important things you’ll come to terms with in your entire life.

ANIMA — You don’t necessarily have to get it right the first time, though. Even if you want to change your mind later, you can. Just decide what feels right *right now* and tell him.

> **1.- What feels right?**

ELECTROCHEMISTRY — All of it, baby. Dicks and pussies and breasts and ass and *thighs*, oh Innocence alive, *thighs* enclosing you in, letting you give worship in the holiest way you know. On your knees and suffocating with joy.

COMPOSURE — Erratically put as always, but yes, you are certainly attracted to everyone.

ENCYCLOPEDIA — There is a word for this, but you forgot it along with everything else. 

**BREAKTHROUGH IMMINENT**

LOGIC — Well. This should be easy enough to puzzle out. You are into more than just one type of person, so perhaps...deuter-sexual?

HAND/EYE COORDINATION — Dual-sexual. Like dual-wielding guns. Or swords. 

ANIMA — Yes, but there’s more than just two— 

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT — Dual wielding *zweihanders*…the Man from Hjelmdall.

RHETORIC — How about duo-sexual?

DRAMA — I like it, sire. Speaks of the duality of man. 

ESPRIT DE CORPS — Evokes a feeling of partnership.

VOLITION — Anything is fine as long as it feels good to use.

ANIMA — Three against two. Duo-sexual it is.

**THOUGHT COMPLETED: Deeper Underground**

**+1 Duo-sexuality**

**+1 Anima**

**+1 Habitus**

**-1 Half-Light**

> **1.- Tell Kim.**
> 
> 2.- Keep it to yourself.

YOU — You nod. “Yeah. Yeah, I think it would be pretty...bitchin’. To get with a guy.” 

SUGGESTION [Medium: Failure] — ‘Cool’ would have been a much less embarrassing way to say that, but you’ve already said it and you can’t take it back now.

KIM KITSURAGI — Kim is just watching you, though, steering both of you up to the window of the kebab place. He orders his first, giving you a little more time to peruse the options. He pays without even letting you offer, but lets you pop a tip into the jar without saying a word. Both of you tear into your wraps the second you leave the tiny shop, meandering down the street towards the river.

After a few bites, Kim looks up at the clouds in the sky and says, “So you really weren’t just pretending to not know about homo-sexuality. Back in Martinaise.”

> 1.- Hold your hand to your chest dramatically. “I am *hurt* that you think I would lie about that, Kim. *Hurt*.”
> 
> 2.- “Do I look like a man who knows a damn thing about himself?” Point to yourself.
> 
> **3.- “Yup. But I’m not a homo-sexual. I’m a *duo-sexual*.”**

KIM KITSURAGI — Kim’s eyebrows flick up, but he gives no other outward reaction to your declaration.

“Alright.”

RHETORIC [Medium: Failure] — Uh oh. Was that the wrong word for it?

VOLITION [Medium: Success] — It’s what you are, now, so no use fretting about it.

EMPATHY [Challenging: Failure] — He doesn’t *seem* to be mocking you, but he is a particularly difficult man to read.

> 1.- “‘Alright’? Is that all you have to say?” Cross your arms.
> 
> **2.- “Is there something wrong with being duo-sexual?”**
> 
> 3.- “Yeah, you’re right, there’s no such thing as a duo-sexual. Forget I said it.”

KIM KITSURAGI — A wrinkle appears on Kim’s forehead that you’ve never seen before. 

“No. Of course there isn’t.”

EMPATHY [Easy: Failure] — What is that wrinkle? Why haven’t you ever seen this face that he’s making? 

DRAMA [Medium: Failure] — It looks like pain, but not quite.

REACTION SPEED [Medium: Failure] — Why would he be in pain because you like men?

LOGIC [Heroic: Failure] — I got nothin’.

YOU — Anxiety bubbles up inside your chest, popping words out of your mouth without any input, once again. “If there’s something wrong, you gotta tell me, Kim. We’re *partners* now and partners can’t keep things from each other, so if you are uncomfortable with my *new* and *dynamic* sexuality then I want to talk about it before it—”

KIM KITSURAGI — “*Harry*. I’m not—” 

EMPATHY [Challenging: Failure] — Oh, *god*, he’s grimacing now. There’s something really wrong, but there’s no way to know what.

YOU — “No, no, I’m not going to be distracted from this, Kim, I’ve thought about this *a lot* and I don’t want this to be something that comes between us in the heat of the *moment*, you know—guns blazing but you don’t trust me because I like dicks *and* pussies! THIGHS.”

KIM KITSURAGI — Kim’s shoulders are trembling.

COMPOSURE [Heroic: Failure] — You have no idea what to do. You’re just talking and talking, saying anything, because you don’t know what’s wrong.

YOU — “Everyone has *thighs*, Kim! Everyone has *tits*! I’m obviously not a strong man, I can’t land between one or the—”

PERCEPTION (Sound) [Trivial: Success] — And then a glorious, heart-stopping sound rings out in the twilight of Revachol. 

A laugh, full-throated and unrestrained.

INLAND EMPIRE [Medium: Success] — You have entered a world where you have heard Kim Kitsuragi’s real laugh. You watch it birth before your eyes again and again: his head thrown back, eyes squeezed shut, beaming smile painted on his lips. His laugh is melodious and erratic, completely unrefined in a way that pushes and shoves at you, rearranges the shapes in your soul to make a proper home for him. 

You will do anything to hear this laugh again for as long as he’ll have you.

**+1 MORALE**

KIM KITSURAGI — “I’m—I’m sorry.” Kim’s laughter segments his words, studding them with a brightness that stuns you into silence. “I am not laughing at you. At your confession. Please don’t—please don’t think I am—”

YOU — “That’s okay.” You are audibly breathless. 

KIM KITSURAGI — Kim seems to visibly draw his authority around himself, his composure slipping back in place one deep breath through his nose at a time. It only takes him a few moments until he’s calm once more, though his eyes still dance as he meets your startled gaze. 

“Harry. There really is no one else quite like you.”

COMPOSURE [Godly: Failure] — There’s not a chance in hell that you’ll stop the blush that heats your face. It spreads like wildfire through your limbs, your skin tingling. 

KIM KITSURAGI — He sighs; a happy sound. “Thank you.” 

AUTHORITY [Formidable: Failure] — The noise you let out in lieu of a question is embarrassingly high. 

KIM KITSURAGI — Kim’s eyes are soft and warm in yours. “For sharing that with me. Even if it was difficult for you.”

ESPRIT DE CORPS [Challenging: Success] — The bond between you and your partner has grown because of this. He knows how hard it can be; first seeing the truth in yourself and then sharing it with other people. It is an exercise in trust, in vulnerability.

He will not betray your trust.

YOU — The buoyant heat coursing through you translates into a smile—one that Lieutenant Kitsuragi easily returns.

“So...you really don’t have a problem with me liking men?”

KIM KITSURAGI — “As long as you don’t make me think of my new coworkers posing on the covers of pornography magazines again, I believe we will be fine.”

His voice is dry, but he is smirking as he takes another bite of his wrap.

YOU — Spurred on by the sight and the almost physical sensation of the bond between you strengthening, you take a bite of your own food, humming as you step into the sunset spilling across the streets.

“No promises, Kim. No promises.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: the beginnings of a beautiful partnership.
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/TellCosy)/[tumblr](https://tellcosy.tumblr.com)


	5. The Wasteland of Reality Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry and Kim's first day goes about as swimmingly as they'd expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys, this is part one of what should be a two-parter. It wasn't intended to be quite so long, so I ended up having to end this part here before it just ran away from me.

  
  


On Kim and Harry’s first official day as partners, it is raining.

Kim isn’t bothered by the rain, of course. He has worked in much worse in his life. But when he stumbles out of bed and finds Harry already up and standing at the window in the living room, he knows that this is going to bother _him_. Harry can’t help himself. He sees signs and visions in even the smallest of things. The lid of a trash can sitting half off, a bird watching him as he walks underneath telephone wires, a book on display in the window of a shop that he has never passed before.

He takes everything to heart. 

Of _course_ it bothers him that there is rain on his first sober day back. 

“It’s raining, Kim.”

Kim rubs at his eyes underneath his glasses, licking the dryness from his lips. He must have been breathing through his mouth all night; his nose is a bit stuffed up. Probably from the early pollination beginning to join the ash particles drifting through the air, as though there isn’t still ice on the ground in some parts of Revachol. 

Ah, springtime in the slums.

He moves over to the kitchen, putting a kettle on before he tries to make coherent thoughts form. As he’s waiting for it to boil, he prepares the mugs and peers back around the kitchen wall at Harry. He hasn’t moved an inch, still standing in his pajamas with his arm high up on the window, leaning his weight onto his good leg. 

“Tea or coffee.”

“It’s probably freezing rain, too.” Harry sighs; a dry, disgusted sound. “Coffee. Please.”

“So we’ll wear our cloaks.” Kim spoons instant coffee into Harry’s mug. It is an enormous, gaudy thing, blue and chipped, with little yellow flowers around the rim that he brought from his apartment and spent at least fifteen minutes talking to while they cleaned. He hasn’t told Kim what it said to him, but it makes him smile to see, so Kim chooses it for him.

“It’s not about the _rain_ , Kim,” Harry says, his voice muffled under the rattle of the kettle. “It’s about Revachol telling me I’m not welcome in her streets.”

“I’m not sure Revachol can control the weather.”

His mutters fall on deaf ears, though. Harry has clearly already decided that it is going to be a bad day and nothing he says will fix that. He decides to focus on his own plans for the day, instead, gathering his thoughts as he steeps his tea as strong as he can.

Before he can do more than remind himself to check that his patches are sewn on tight enough and make sure Harry hasn’t missed a spot while helping him shave the back of his hair, the lieutenant is sighing again, this time from the kitchen entrance.

“I dreamt that Jean made me clean toilets with a toothbrush.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Kim says automatically, stirring Harry’s coffee quickly even as he hands it over to him. Harry’s hands brush against his as he takes the mug from him and Kim allows himself that brief moment of touch without pulling away quickly. He watches as he takes cautious, quick sips of the exceedingly hot coffee, swallowing down the urge to smile. “You clean the _floors_ with a toothbrush. Toilets are strictly by hand in hazing rituals.”

The look Harry gives him over the rim of his mug is at once terrified and intrigued. Kim watches him visibly flounder between two options before he lands on, “Do you really think Jean’s going to _haze_ us?”

“No,” Kim says, sipping his tea. “Not _us_. But he certainly isn’t pleased with _you_.”

When Harry just grimaces, Kim decides to have mercy, shaking his head lightly. “It isn’t worth worrying about. You’ve survived worse.”

“Worse than my ex-partner who said not a week ago that I fucked up Wing C so badly that we’re now a laughingstock who can’t stop hemorrhaging good cops?” Harry’s eyebrows are high up on his forehead. Kim huffs dismissively, but Harry presses on. “Worse than my ex-partner who can and will take every opportunity to remind me that I’m just a drunk asshole who should have gotten fired? Worse than—”

“Yes, alright, I see your point.” Kim grimaces. 

Harry’s sigh is heavy enough that it ghosts across Kim’s face. His brows furrow and he drinks his coffee steadily, gaze turned inwards where Kim knows he’s talking to his voices. 

He hopes they’re comforting him, at least.

He downs the rest of his tea in one gulp, ignoring the burn on the way down and glancing over at the clock. They aren’t running late, yet, but he knows that if he doesn’t get there early that he will start the day anxious. 

At least one of them should have it together and Harry certainly isn’t going to be it. 

Harry does nothing to prove him wrong as they get dressed, his brow permanently furrowed and the silence from him palpable. Kim can practically hear the whirring of his brain attempting to predict every scenario that might greet him as they drive up through the morning traffic into Central Jamrock. 

Several times, he considers attempting to alleviate his stress, but shakes off the urge. Harry has decided that divine judgement awaits him at the station and so divine judgement it will be, no matter how he tries to convince him otherwise. Instead, he drives a bit quicker than he might normally, weaving the back streets to reduce the amount of time Harry has to fret.

Harry’s shoulders are hunched over against the chilly rain that whisks in from the open air wall of the stables, but Kim watches close as they draw back bit by bit with every call of his name from the people coming and going. Everyone has a jab for him—about his lack of a ridiculous tie, his improved hygiene, his timeliness—but most of them are tossed about good-naturedly, if also with more than a little bite. 

Even after everything, Harry is still one of them.

But still, Harry’s carrying stress across his back as they continue through the main corridor, taking the turnoff from Wing D into Wing C. As soon as they push through the heavy swinging door, there are eyes on them, and Kim finds himself standing a little straighter to compensate for the way that Harry shrinks in on himself. 

There’s only a few beats of complete, crushing silence before a resonant voice rises up from the back of the room.

“Harry Du Bois, what’s this I hear about you forgettin’ us?”

Harry looks up at the sound of his name, but the giant, stocky black woman who’d spoken gives him no time to react before she stomps over and crushes him in a hug. She has an easy six inches on Harry, her arms thick with muscle and legs like tree trunks. She doesn’t struggle a bit to lift him up onto his tip-toes as she growls in amusement, “Forget _this_ , Lieutenant!”

Kim stares, completely at a loss for what to do, until Harry starts to laugh, deep and happy.

“It’s true, I did forget everyone.” 

“You’re a real piece of work, you know!” The woman drops Harry back down and clasps his shoulders in two enormous hands, peering down at him as if she can beam the memories back into Harry through her eyes. “After everything we’ve been through, you go and forget. Tsch. Typical Du Bois.” Her words are sharp, but she’s still smiling, so Kim feels there’s no need to interrupt. This is certainly something that Harry will just have to deal with for a little bit.

Harry stares up at her, stroking his new beard, his head cocked. “Sorry, were we friends?”

The woman’s deep brown eyes glitter with a sudden mischief and she shifts her hands onto her hips and says, “ _Friends_? No, Harry, we were—”

“ _Prue_ , my god, don’t tease; he’ll believe you.” 

Kim glances over to where the voice came from and sees Judit Minot watching with amusement from where she stands at a desk, packing things into a tiny cardboard box, her face caught between a grimace and a smile. She twists her brows apologetically at him and he tips his head in acknowledgement; she, at least, had been a voice of reason on that first radio call Harry had made. Out of anyone Kim is willing to give the benefit of the doubt to, it is her.

“Believe what?” Harry asks, looking between the three of them. 

“ _Nothing_ , Harry,” Judit says, shaking her head and struggling to hoist the box up under her arm. The woman—Prue—immediately tuts and takes the box from her. Judit clicks her tongue, but still says, “Thanks.”

“Don’t worry about it, chief,” Prue says with a flash of teeth, giving the box a hard pat. “Where you want it? In the office?”

Judit nods and Kim watches as the large woman tosses her a wink and a finger-gun before hauling the box onto her shoulder and heading over to the lieutenants’ office, whistling out of tune. Kim blinks, glancing over at Judit, and finds her watching him and Harry with a thoughtful expression.

“See, Kim!” Harry is saying, though, pointing over at Prue as she disappears into the office. “I’m not the only one who does the finger-gun thing! It isn’t disrespectful!”

“Whether or not you believe that, it still isn’t _cool_ , Detective,” Kim answers automatically before clearing his throat. “Judit—ah. Or, perhaps...Lieutenant Minot, if I’m not mistaken?”

“It’s _very_ cool—wait, what?” Harry asks, his voice carrying into the silence still hovering ominously over the room. “ _Lieutenant_?”

The eyes on them are not only focused on Harry anymore.

Judit tries not to wince, but she isn’t very successful, and Kim makes a snap decision, stepping forward and holding out his hand. “Looking forward to working with you again, Lieutenant Minot. I appreciated your candour and empathy in the matter at Martinaise.”

Judit’s eyes widen ever-so-slightly, but it only takes a single beat of nervous hesitation before she grasps his hand, grip firm but not crushing. Palms callused but fingers careful not to dig into his hand. 

He grips back, wondering what she is gleaning from him.

Whatever it may be, she smiles gently at him and says, “Likewise, Lieutenant Kitsuragi. We were lucky to snatch you up from the 57th.”

Kim wants to argue, but with a dozen eyes on him and Judit, he knows that the last thing he should do is downplay his achievements. So he just nods and takes a half-step back, glancing over to where Harry is still staring between the two of them. “Khm. Shall we get a start on the day, then?”

Kim can see Harry’s instinct to speak rear its head, but it only takes a significant look from him for his mouth to snap shut once more. He gives him a sorry, hangdog look, but he doesn’t relent, adjusting his gloves and gesturing for them to go ahead of him to the office.

Harry’s ability to hold himself back only lasts until the click of the door behind Kim, though, and he barely suppresses a sigh when he immediately leaps on questioning Judit despite Prue still being in the room.

“What happened?” he asks, eyes wide. “Are you okay? How did you end up as a lieutenant when you were just a—”

“ _Officer_ ,” Kim interrupts sharply, but Judit gives him a small smile and shakes her head.

“It’s okay. It’s better to get it out now, right? Everyone else certainly isn’t happy about it—”

“Because they’re _idiots_ —” Prue interjects casually, unloading the heavy case files into a green filing cabinet that hadn’t been there on Friday.

“—because it’s _unusual_ ,” Judit finishes, glancing over at Prue pointedly. 

Prue just sniffs back.

Judit turns back to Harry, who has sat down at the desk closest to him, which happens to be Jean’s. Kim wonders if perhaps he should say something, but the thought is stopped by Judit continuing.

“But these are unusual times,” she says thoughtfully, brushing her thumb against the light layer of dust that has already gathered onto what must be her new desk. Her eyes are distant, suddenly, looking out the thin window to the alley behind the precinct. “Pryce knows—we all know—that something is coming. Something bigger than a few people jumping rank. Or choosing to come to the bloody precinct when the G.R.I.H. is so much safer. Or even—” She glances back at Harry. “—someone losing all their memories for the third time in a year and turning a new leaf.”

Harry’s brows furrow, but he just shoves his hands into his cloak pockets and looks out the window, too. 

There is heavy, important silence that crowds the room until Prue mutters, “Turns over a new stick, more like,” as she slots in the last of the files.

When everyone turns and looks at her, she blinks and snorts. “What? You think we don’t all know about that bug now?”

“Everyone?” Kim asks, feeling a bit light in the back of his head. Certainly not faint. Just concerned, perhaps, that everyone will have already made their assumptions about him before he’s even started his first case.

_Not that it matters_. _They will make their assumptions of you whether or not you found a stick bug cryptid or united all of Elysium as its new Innocence. That’s just what they do._

“Not _everyone_.” Judit sighs lightly. “But Torson and McLaine know because Jean wouldn’t shut up about it. So now Prue and King know since they’re the new sergeants.”

Kim can see Harry stiffen up even from where he stands at the shuttered window to the bullpen. He is surprised that Prue notices as well, when she claps a hand onto his shoulder and jostles him good-naturedly, saying, “Aww, don’t worry your ugly mug, chief. King’n’I know you’re still shaky on your feet. We won’t give you a hard time.”

At Judit’s tiny snort, Prue grins fiercely. “More than usual.”

Kim watches Harry’s face closely, taking note of the heavy swallow and the muscle at his cheekbone twitching arrhythmically as he looks down at the nameplate peeking out from behind a messy stack of papers. Jean’s nameplate. 

Kim can almost pinpoint the exact moment when Harry’s voices start talking to him even though he doesn’t do more than take a quick, shaky breath through his nose and glance over at the desks to his side and in front of him. 

He is looking for something, Kim realises. Or perhaps remembering where something used to be.

And then his eyes alight on what looks to be a framed postcard of the coast, a church spire in the distance, obscured by light fog. 

_It isn’t Martinaise, but it could be. Could be any part of the coastline of Revachol, untamed and wild._

_You could have been to that church and you would never know._

And as though Kim’s thoughts spur Harry out of his stillness, he leans forward and lifts the frame with his big hands. It all happens fast enough that neither Judit nor Prue take any notice until Harry asks, “This picture—there was something else in this frame, wasn’t there?”

Judit peers down at the picture before giving a slightly apologetic shrug. “Not sure. It’s always been that for as long as I’ve been working with Jean.”

But Prue gives Harry her own long, searching look that speaks of the sort of detective she is. She doesn’t call any attention to herself as she assesses Kim’s partner, her gaze flicking across his face and hands and shoulders. Making assumptions about his mental state, perhaps, based on his body language. Her deep brown eyes are almost clinical as she sizes Harry up, but when she meets his eyes, she visibly relaxes.

“Yeah,” she says simply at first, coming over to sit against the edge of Judit’s desk as Judit herself sits in her chair and begins to arrange the small box of personal effects she has, starting with her nameplate. “Yeah, there used to be something else there.”

“What was it?” Harry asks, gripping the frame hard enough that Kim worries it may break. 

“No idea,” Prue says, holding a hand palm-up. When she sees the confusion on both Kim and Harry’s face, she clicks her tongue against the side of her teeth. “Sorry, I really don’t. Just know that there used to be something else. Something...” She frowns. “Something with people, I think.”

“It does seem a bit strange to have a postcard like that framed,” Kim points out, even though it isn’t _that_ strange, surely. It isn’t as though he has any personal photos framed in his house or from his old office. Perhaps he would have done the same, just to have something there to look at.

He feels the odd urge to shift, something in his bones uncomfortable.

He forces himself to stand still.

“Does Jean have a family?” Harry asks suddenly, and Prue and Judit exchange a look so brief that Kim knows they didn’t intend to. Judit is the one who clears her throat and shakes her head, her hair flapping gently with the motion. 

“Not that he speaks of.”

“No girlfriend? Or wife?”

Judit makes a noise that sounds like it could be a choked-back laugh, but Kim doesn’t quite know what to make of that. Is it funny to think of Jean being in any relationship, or maybe just for him to be with a...

...surely not.

“No, no girlfriend,” Judit says, coughing lightly behind a hand. “Why?”

“Well, it’s just that—” Harry looks down at the frame. “If there was a picture of someone on his desk, then he must’ve cared about them. Right?” 

He directs this at Kim, and Kim nods without thinking. It stands to reason that one doesn’t take up precious desktop real estate with a framed photo if one doesn’t care about the subject.

Especially considering the state of Jean’s desk.

It’s a wonder he’d even had the room to cut lines on it.

Kim has a sudden flash of Jean collapsed onto this desk, blood trickling from his nose and eyes wide, unseeing, surrounded by case files, overlooked by that photo. The one that used to be something else but isn’t any longer.

He hopes beyond reason that Harry has not noticed the sudden stiffness in his body, and chooses to dig out his handkerchief and polish his glasses rather than look at him and remove all doubt.

“I’m not sure who it could have been,” Judit is saying as he polishes and polishes. “I’ve been to his house and the only pictures up are of—khm. Ah...all of us. At the precinct.” She pauses, frowning. “I’m not sure Jean is the—marrying type.”

“Nah, he’s more like the sneaking around lookin’ for glory holes type.”

Kim’s hand freezes and he has to force it to move. He slips his glasses back on carefully and tucks away his handkerchief.

“ _Prudence Porter_ ,” Judit stresses, eyes wide with shock as Prue cackles gleefully, head thrown back.

Kim dutifully shoves the image away that is trying to form in his head, but by the confused look on Harry’s face that he quickly tries to cover up with a wise, knowing nod, there’s no hope of letting that joke pass without comment. 

“I’m not sayin’ he _does_!” Prue says, waving her hands “I didn’t start the rumour!” 

“That doesn’t mean you should repeat it, either,” Judit says, making a visor from her hand over her forehead and squeezing her temples. “Jean is a good man.”

“Good men are always searching for a hole to disappear into,” Harry says while stroking his beard, still nodding. “They have more to lose.”

Kim has to resist the urge to rub at his eyes. He’s too far away to quietly explain to Harry that this is absolutely not a metaphor for him to flex his art cop muscles over, so he’ll just have to be on his own with this one. 

Thankfully, Prue and Judit seem too confused to do more than stare when Harry continues to say, “I may not remember much about myself, but I get the feeling that I, too, fell into that same hole looking for glory.”

Kim finally loses the fight against the sigh pushing at his chest as he is once again forced to shove aside an entirely inappropriate image from his mind.

There is a long, excruciatingly silent pause before Prue snorts with sudden laughter, leaning forward to brace one hand against Harry’s shoulder while the other hand slaps her thigh. “Fuck, Du Bois, of _course_ you did! Explains all those times King’n’I lost you down Boogie Street. Always figured you were just findin’ some poor waitress to cry your eyes out on again.”

Harry looks a bit sick at that, but he swallows visibly and asks, “Did I do that a lot?”

Judit looks uncomfortable with the thought of discussing it, but she still nods. “I’ve only been here for a few months, but...you would often _gravitate_ to people you thought would listen to what you had to say.”

Kim recognises the look on Harry’s face as him struggling to swallow down an apology, and feels a strange sense of pride when he manages it. Instead, Harry clears his throat and asks, “Were they always—women?”

Prue gives him another hard pat before leaning back and shaking her head. The doorknob rattles slightly beside Kim and he sucks in a slow breath of dusty, dry air that makes his throat stick. He glances out of the tiny gap in the blinds and sees Jean shouldering into the room, dragging another smaller filing cabinet behind him and muttering darkly. None of the others seem to notice except him, so Jean walks in to Prue saying,

“Nah, not always women. But you, uh—you definitely had a _type_.”

“A type?” Harry asks thoughtfully. “I had a type?”

Kim watches as Jean freezes in the doorway, his eyes caught on Harry. He doesn’t know Jean very well, but he doesn’t need to to see his thoughts flickering to life on his face, hot and neon. The twitch in his cheek as Harry bounces back in his chair, the way his exposed forearm strains as he clenches his fist around the doorjamb, the flare of his nostrils, the flick of his eyes across Harry’s face, then hands, then pockets.

Looking for—drugs, alcohol, a gun? Kim isn’t sure. Perhaps all three. 

Because Harry is in his sanctuary—in his domain of control—and it is taking every ounce of his patience to not tell him to leave.

Kim wonders why he hasn’t. What has changed in the week since he couldn’t seem to stop himself from egging Harry on to destruction. 

“Mmhm. Didn’t much care if they were young or old, but every single time, they were—”

“ _Blonde_.”

Everyone startles at once as Jean slams the door behind him, his interjection like the strike of a venomous snake. A warning strike, but a strike nonetheless. 

“ _Sweet Dolores Dei_ , you scared me! The hell you slamming doors for, Vic?” Prue snaps, huffing with annoyance as Judit moves over to help Jean slide the new filing cabinet beside the other. Kim watches Harry as he watches Jean, his brows like heavy cliffs over his eyes.

He suddenly finds himself unable to stay where he is standing anymore, his legs carrying him over to his new desk. He can feel a pair of eyes on him as he sits down and takes out the case files he brought home on Friday, and when he glances up, he finds Judit looking at him with an intensity that is mismatched with what he has seen of her. He isn’t sure how to hold himself under that gaze, so he just nods and forces himself to look back to the files. If she wants to read into something that he’s done, then she is going to do it no matter what he’s doing.

He might as well get started on some work.

As he flips through his blue clipboard, though, trying to get a feel for which they should start on that day, Harry pushes his luck and asks, “Blonde? Why blonde?”

Kim has to close his eyes and bite back another sigh, the tip of his tongue pushing into the backs of his teeth. And just as expected of a viper prodded inside its nest, Jean snaps back without hesitation,

“Because your ex was blonde and against all odds, you’re still fucked up about her. Congratulations. Now get the hell out of my chair, shitkid. Some of us have to actually work.”

There is a long, dangerous pause where Kim listens intently for the tiny clues that Harry’s breathing gives him. When he is about to say something rude or aggressive, he takes in a sharp, but long breath, like coolant hissing through the Kineema as it kicks into higher gear. When he thinks he’s about to say something hilarious, he chuffs out pockets of breath like a train engine on a straight. When he’s performatively apologetic, he deflates noisily; actually regretful, and he barely breathes at all, as if the weight of his sadness steals his breath. 

But this pattern—long inhales punctuated by stuttering at the end—is still new to him. 

It’s the one he’s begun to associate with Jean, as Harry almost exclusively does it when his ex-partner is around.

It means he’s trying not to say something and is struggling badly with it, and sure enough, a second later, Harry speaks, his voice thick and deep and barely restrained.

“Alright. You’re right. We’re here to work.”

Jean’s chair creaks as Harry stands and Kim looks up against his better judgement, watching as Harry and Jean face off in this tiny space, the air souring around them. Jean’s back is rigid, his hands clenched into fists at his side, the press of his arm making his holster jut forward. Harry is slumped, as though trying to bring himself down to Jean’s height. He is fiddling with the toggles on his cloak, his lips pulled between his teeth before pushing out again; mouth opening, then shutting. Jean just glares until Harry finally pulls another of those breaths, and then he snaps, “No, Harry. _No_ ,” so viciously that Judit flinches. 

“My cue to go,” Prue mutters in the hollow space that Jean’s bark left in the room. She glances over at Kim and gives a little salute. “Good to meet you, Lieutenant. Lemme know if there’s anything you guys need from King or I, yeah? We’ll be down Burnt Out today.”

Kim just nods stiffly, not trusting his dry throat to produce anything more than a cough, and Prue weaves around the bolus that Harry and Jean have created in front of the door. 

No one breathes until she clicks the door closed behind her, and then there’s no stopping Jean from slamming his clipboard onto his desk, scattering papers as far as Kim’s fingertips. He doesn’t move to return them, hand pressed tight to his desktop, the metal cold enough to chill him even through his gloves. 

The RCM’s annual switching off of the heat long before it’s warm enough for it has started early this year, it seems. Or perhaps it’s just 41 that suffers harder than others.

“Jean…” Judit attempts, her voice placatory, but Jean is already too far gone to listen. 

Kim wonders if there would have been anything Harry could do that wouldn’t have set him off. 

Probably not, if the fire in his eyes is any indication.

“ _No_ ,” he says again, finger pointed in warning at Harry, who still hasn’t moved a muscle. “No. _You_ aren’t going to come to this office and act like you’re the victim. Like you’re just here to _work_ and I’m—”

“Jean, please,” Judit interrupts, moving between Harry and Jean and putting a hand to his chest. Kim feels himself tense for just a single moment at the contact and feels a hot flash of shame that he is preparing for Jean to become violent. 

But he doesn’t relax.

“No, Jude—he’s—”

“He’s just trying to do his job, just like us,” Judit cuts in again, her eyes narrowed. Jean looks into her eyes for a long, long moment, his pupils dancing between the space, before gritting his jaw and growling out a sigh.

“ _Fine_. Whatever.”

The tension in the room holds for a few more moments before bleeding away, seeping down into the cracks and leaving an uncomfortable stickiness behind. Harry finally unfreezes long enough to slip away and Jean’s eyes dart over to watch him, as though he can’t help himself. The line of Harry’s journey over to hang his cloak up tracks Jean’s gaze through Kim’s, though, and he startles visibly as their eyes meet, immediately looking away. 

Kim lets himself breathe.

At least until Harry sits down and rolls over to peer over his shoulder at his cases, asking, “What’re we tackling first, then? That one over on Ariel Street—the missing person that—”

“No.”

Kim has a sudden flash of rage that flares up into the space behind his knuckles and dies before he can do more than clench his fist. He turns his eyes from Harry’s curled brows to see Jean leaning over his desk, staring down at his own clipboard. 

Kim tries not to speak, but he knows he is quickly approaching his limit, and so he allows himself a short, “No? Something wrong with that assignment, Lieutenant?”

“No,” Jean says, voice dull and quiet.

_Dangerous_. 

_He is restraining himself now, but too much pressure will be the coil behind the bullet._

“But he is _not_ going there. He is not taking that case.”

“Harry and I have already made preliminary interviews. He is already on the case.”

Jean still doesn’t turn his eyes to Kim, even as he says, “He isn’t taking _any_ cases. I may not have been able to demote him, but he’s going to stay here and push papers until he learns how to be a human again.”

“ _Jean_ ,” Judit admonishes, but he doesn’t look at her, either.

His eyes just creep back to Harry’s, a maelstrom hiding behind the mask of his face. 

“You’re staying here,” he repeats.

_Where I can keep an eye on you_ , _is what he isn’t saying. He doesn’t trust him._

_He could make all of your lives a living hell if he wants to, and he knows it._

_Don’t let him get away with this._

_Don’t let him question your authority._

_Don’t let him_ — 

“Kim.”

Harry’s voice interrupts Kim’s spiral into something that would very quickly cause more trouble than help. He looks over at him, digging his fingers into his palm through the anger prickling his skin, and blinks when he sees Harry give him a smile that is clearly meant just for him.

_It’s okay_. _I’m okay_.

“Jean’s right—there’s a lot of paperwork to catch up on here,” Harry says, clearly attempting to sound casual and landing somewhere near pained. “You’ll be alright for a day or two, right?”

Jean’s snort punches out of him, but he doesn’t say anything.

It is Judit, surprisingly, who speaks first. “Don’t worry, Harry. He won’t be alone. I’ll patrol with him.”

“What? But—”

“No, Jean, you’re right,” Judit says, standing and throwing her cloak on. “Harry _should_ ease back into work after being shot in the line of duty. And I know Kim would appreciate getting the lay of the land, so I’d be happy to show him around.” She gives Jean a significant look and he shrinks back, mouth tight. “You two can stay here and catch up. Us newbies will get out of your hair.”

“Jude…”

“See you later, Harry. Remember to have lunch, okay?”

Kim stares in shock as Judit leaves the room after a glance at him, but he finds his feet after a moment and clears his throat, reaching down to give Harry’s shoulder a squeeze and pat before raising his collar and following her. He catches up to her on the pavement just outside the stables, the air thick with the smell of manure and hay and heavy fuel oil. She has a cigarette dangling from her lips, struggling to light a match against the wind. 

Kim takes out his lighter and strikes it close to the end, nodding silently as she grunts gratefully, breathing in deep and dropping her head back to release a cloud of smoke into the air. He looks away out of a sense of privacy, not wanting to make her feel like he’s watching her while she works herself back down.

After a moment where the only sound is the whinnying of horses and the call of migrating birds, Judit sighs and says,

“Sorry to drag you away like that.”

Kim shakes his head and starts off down the street with only a gesture of his elbow to indicate. She follows close enough that he can smell the chestnut of her tabac even through the mist. It makes his fingers itch, but he’s used to the feeling by now, especially after the last two weeks.

“I didn’t know you smoked.”

“I don’t. Usually,” she says, huffing out a laugh that sounds tired. “I quit years back for my kids, but I keep one on me just in case.”

Kim doesn’t have to ask what she means by ‘just in case’. 

“Maybe it wasn’t worth smoking it now, but I needed to calm down fast and I just...”

Kim doesn’t have to ask her what she means by that, either.

“Anyway. Sorry about all that on your first day.”

Kim watches as she smiles and raises her hand to wave at someone waving at her from a produce stall across the street, their headscarf flapping in the misty wind. He nods when they turn their eyes to him and give him a polite wave as well. 

“Don’t be sorry,” he says, scanning the rest of the booths that line the mini-market that sits at the corner. He can spot a butcher and a tailor and what looks to be a machine repair booth, but the others are too full of miscellany for him to pinpoint what exactly they specialise in. “Harry knew what was waiting for him and I’m not going to mediate the two of them.” 

He clasps his hands at the base of his spine and feels a part of him relax. The position is almost meditative in its familiarity. “They are going to have to work it out sometime.”

“Mm,” Judit agrees, taking another drag. As she breathes out slow, her fingers twirl the cigarette deftly between them; a parlour trick Kim has seen used by others to impress giggly women in bars. On her, it looks like a tic. Like Jean clenching his _frontenis_ ball, Harry stroking his beard, Alice chewing her fingers. 

Kim gripping his hands behind his back because then he doesn’t have to wonder what to do with them, where to hold them, how to act around strangers.

“Not sure if leaving them alone together is going to make them do anything other than kill each other, but I guess we’ll see, won’t we?” she says with a crooked smile. 

“At least we’ll save on the funeral costs if they do,” Kim says dryly, a tiny coil of tension unwinding behind his chest when she gasps with sudden laughter. Her laugh is a lot rougher than he would have expected, but it fits her somehow. 

“Ah, sweet Innocence, that would just be the last jab that Jean would need to become a vengeful ghost,” she says with a laughing sigh that quickly deflates into sadness once more. “He already thinks we’re all against him, you know.”

Kim raises his brows and she nods, gesturing vaguely with her cigarette before taking another drag. “I’m sure he doesn’t want me telling you this because—well.”

“Because I’m Harry’s partner now,” Kim provides, careful to keep his voice neutral.

“Mmmhm,” she agrees, a twinge of annoyance in her throat. “Thinks that everyone’s forgotten what Harry’s done to us. To him.”

Kim says nothing, just letting her flick ash into the street and glare out at the dark alley they walk past.

“None of us have forgotten.”

Kim knows then that he has underestimated the depth of Judit’s care for Harry. The bitterness in her words runs deep and quiet and hollow and he knows that she has also been tasked with keeping him alive despite his best efforts.

Kim wonders if Harry can feel it or if he, too, has overlooked the evidence.

“Harry’s a good man,” Judit says suddenly, the long moments of silence broken with that declaration. 

“I know,” Kim says plainly.

“Harry’s a _good_ man,” she says again, and Kim realises that she is talking to herself, as well. “Who has done bad things.” She takes a long, _long_ drag of her cigarette and looks over at him as the smoke drifts from her nose. “There is a distinction.”

“I know.”

Judit nods loosely, but she’s looking away again. “Jean is a good man, too.”

Kim just watches her this time, and she clicks her tongue, shoulders curling inward before she forces them back, steel in her spine. “I know bad men. You know?”

“Mm,” Kim grunts in acknowledgement, but she is already continuing.

“There are the truly evil men—the sort of men that join Krenel. Then there are the men who try to convince everyone that they are doing good when really they don’t care much if they are or not. The Claires. Berdyayeva. Hell, even La Puta Madre thinks he’s doing good for his family. And then there are the mundane men. My husband—my last partner—McCoy. The men that are so boring and predictable in their everyday malevolence that it’s easier, most of the time, to just ignore them. To just swallow down the calls and the looks and the names and the hits and the complete—disregard—for anyone’s life but theirs.”

She takes a breath that shudders and holds it in her lungs before letting it out with a shake of her head, her hair whipping across her face. “Those men. Those are bad men. And yeah—yeah, Harry’s done his time as a bad man. Jean too.” She takes a delicate drag, the insides of her fingers stroking along the cigarette filter. “I bet you have, too, Lieutenant.”

Kim wishes he could say no, but it would be a lie and they would both know that.

So he just nods and she nods back and grinds her cigarette into a wall before tossing it away.

“But the distinction is: coming back out of that place. The place where it’s easier to take the bribe, or hit someone instead of talking to them, or look at someone who you’ve never seen before and distrust them. Harry and Jean have done bad things. But they know that and they are still _trying_ to be good.” She pauses, as if the knot she was untangling had suddenly worked out all by itself. “So they’re good men.”

She tucks her hands into her pockets and looks up at the grey sky, a shiver running through her.

“And the thing is, none of us have forgotten what Harry has done. I was there, too, to hold his hair and clean off the blood and the sick. I was there to calm down the girls he scared by shouting at empty corners in bars. I was there to answer the call for an ambulance when he went too far.” She shrugs out the hem of her cloak. “We’ve all seen it. We were _all_ there. Maybe not as long or—or maybe not as involved—as Jean, but no matter how long you’ve been at Precinct 41, you’ve known Harry Du Bois.”

Kim watches her smile, strangely mesmerised by her vehemence.

“For all his bad, he’s got an ocean of good under it. Strange and sometimes uncomfortable and always at the worst times, but…”

“He’s a good man.”

Judit turns that smile on him when he speaks and he doesn’t quite know what to do with it, at first. It feels a little bit like a butterfly landing on his hand in the middle of the sunflower fields. It tickles all the same as those bristly legs against his fine hairs and he is caught between brushing it away or letting it stay—or, with the sudden dread of knowledge churning in his gut, he could also kill it. He has the power to crush it now just as much as he ever did.

But as strange as it feels, he is no longer a scared child aching for stability. He is a grown man and he transferred to this position for a reason.

_Pop, snap, wheeze, and she cracked you open._

_Like an old paint can, used and reused and neglected—still functional, but harder to prise open every single time it closes again._

_You can douse it in paint thinner, of course. But that can hurt, getting bits of you washed away._

_So sometimes, all it takes is another paint can lid slipped underneath yours and—_

“My partner—my first partner as a lieutenant—he wasn’t a good man, either.”

_Pop._

Judit crooks her head to let him know she’s listening and he squeezes his wrist hard enough to feel his heartbeat through the leather. “He wasn’t a _bad_ man. But he would often put pressure on everyone around him to go along with his whims without considering the toll.”

They stop to allow a motorcarriage to pass by, the spokes on the back left tyre bending with each bump in the cobbles. They are in for a nasty surprise in about a week, he reckons.

“Your partner, did he…?”

Kim doesn’t have to look away from the wobbling motorcarriage to know that she is asking if he died.

And isn’t it strange that he doesn’t even consider not saying, “Yes. He overdosed.”

“I’m sorry.”

“So am I,” he says, stepping out into the faded crosswalk. He can hear the clip of Judit’s heels on the macadam layering over his own. “He wasn’t a good man, but he didn’t deserve to die like that.”

Judit is quiet for a moment before she says, “My partner was beaten to death in Villalobos.”

Her voice is even, unaffected. He recognises the tone; he had worked very hard on his own years back. Back when it wouldn’t do to be getting emotional over losing a partner when everyone else had as well.

The small print of joining the RCM, the ever-present rock and hard place: get attached for loyalty’s sake, but not _too_ attached.

He knows what that tone means, and so he doesn’t ask how long it’s been since she lost her partner. 

“I suppose he didn’t deserve that, either, but I can’t say that I’m sad about it.” At his raised brows, Judit shrugs her shoulders lightly, as though simply guarding herself against the rain. “In his better moments, he was just a misogynist, but when he got a drink in him…” She trails off, stepping around a broken bottle of wine and giving the lid a kick down the street. 

Kim tries his best not to kick it as well when they catch up, but he doesn’t manage. Judit gives him that crooked smile again and they take turns kicking the lid down the street until the only place for it to go is into the gutter. 

“I’m not saying I didn’t need counselling beyond the mandatory session,” she says when they watch the lid spin and crash into a sludge pile of old leaves and newspapers. “I did. Having to explain to my children that I almost died was something that I needed help with. And I still have nightmares of being back there. Especially after physical therapy days.” She pauses thoughtfully. “I actually have a long term counselor assignment.”

“They have the budget for a full-time counselor?” he asks, not bothering to hide his surprise.

“Mm,” Judit says, nodding while also rocking her hand out in front of her. “Sort of. They aren’t quite full time and they do time-share with other precincts, but they told me that—you know how Harry and Jean formed the task force?”

Kim nods, grunting lightly. He remembers Jean’s derision over “what is left of it”, as well.

“Well, that was something that Jean pushed for when they reformed. Before then, we only ever had the mandatory session and then we’d have to go private, which, obviously, isn’t really possible on our stipends. Now, at least, we can get a few follow-up sessions that help put things in better perspective.” She frowns, a line appearing between her brows. “It isn’t enough, but it’s something.”

When their eyes meet, Kim knows that Judit can see his thoughts as though he’d spoken them out loud, if the wry smile that spreads across her face is any indication.

Not enough—not nearly enough—but at least it’s something: the RCM down to the letter.

Kim huffs out a breath, ignoring the spot of fog that blooms across his glasses. “I have to say, it does seem ironic for Lieutenant Vicquemare to have been the one to push for counselling to be available, considering.”

Judit snorts. “Jean is a man who lives by do as I say. He’ll never admit to needing help.” She sighs, long and quiet. “I sometimes wonder if that’s why he treats Harry the way he does.”

Kim blinks. “He didn’t seem the sort of man to belittle someone for seeking help.”

“No—no, he isn’t. Of course he isn’t. Jean is—Jean tries too hard for everyone and—and he thinks he has to be strong enough to do it alone. But Harry…”

“He thinks Harry finds it easy to ask others for help,” Kim guesses.

Judit shrugs. “I just wonder, sometimes.”

Kim flexes his fingers around his wrist and allows his arms to drop by his side. His throat works as he tries to find the right words, but in the end all he can ask is, “Does he know that Harry and I are living together?”

Judit’s eyes flash with interest. “No. No, I don’t think he does, considering he spent the weekend on my couch after showing up high on Friday night.” At Kim’s frown, she laughs and shakes her head. “Don’t worry; he sobered up fast when he realised that my children were home instead of out with their father like they were meant to be.”

Kim doesn’t want to make assumptions about things that aren’t his business, so he is at a bit of a loss, but luckily Judit continues without prompting.

“It’s not unusual for him to spend Friday nights on my couch—he’s been doing it for months now. He told me, that first time, that it was because Harry had crashed at _his_ place, and then he insisted that he just doesn’t want me to be alone when my husband disappears for days but I think…” She hesitates before pushing her damp hair out of her face. “I think that maybe at some point he just started wanting the company.” She glances over at Kim, smiling. “Don’t tell him I told you, but he takes my children out to wherever they want on his days off. They call him _Oncle_ Jean.”

Kim has to spend a long moment reconciling the two images of Jean in his head and Judit must notice, as she sighs with something that sounds like disappointment, sending a wave of misplaced guilt through his chest. 

“I’m—I don’t mean to be disrespectful,” he finds himself saying. “I apologise.”

“Don’t worry about it,” she says, her smile sad now. She lifts her collar against the wind and watches the pavement as they walk. “I know what sort of man he is, and I know it isn’t easy to see what’s under the surface. I know it probably doesn’t make any sense for me to let him stay or to try to mediate between the two of them—after everything—but I—I—”

“You have to try,” Kim offers, and nods at Judit’s wary, but hopeful glance. “I understand.”

Judit gives him another of those unnerving, studious stares that make him feel exposed. It’s almost a relief when she finally asks, “Is that why you’re helping Harry?”

Kim swallows. “I’m helping Harry because it’s the right thing to do. Because it’s what he needs.” The second the words leave his mouth, he regrets the insinuation. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to suggest that you haven’t—”

“No, that’s okay,” Judit says, smiling kindly. “Truthfully, we _haven’t_ done everything we could for Harry because—well, because he didn’t want us to.”

Kim sighs. “That’s what I figured when Lieutenant Vicquemare told him about what he’d said.” He shoves his hands deep inside his pockets, his fingers tangling through his handkerchief. He worries at the embroidered lines of his initials. “Tell me something, please. If you don’t mind.”

“Yes,” she says before he even asks what’s been plaguing him since that day in the Whirling, when Jean’s wig slipped and the air crackled between the four of them like lightning between conduits. “Yes, something _has_ changed. I can’t tell you what sort of recoveries he had in the past, but every time before now has been—urgent. All-encompassing. He could go a week or two without a drink, but would spend every moment telling us about it. He wouldn’t let us drink, either. Would make us feel guilty about even thinking of having one.”

“Mania,” Kim says absently, and Judit nods loosely. “My partner was the same. He would get clean for weeks at a time before relapsing.” He presses his thumb hard, _hard_ into the threads. “He’d almost made it to a month when he died.”

Judit is quiet for several beats before she speaks again. “Everyone has different opinions on what the hardest times are. A week; thirty days; ninety. Ten months, eleven months, a year, and some say you’ll never be rid of it your whole life. That every day is hard.” 

Kim counts the threads, counts the little pop of life they give under the seam of his glove.

“He’s made it fourteen days now, already.”

“I don’t know that he’ll make it to thirty if he doesn’t have everyone’s support,” he says, his voice harder than he’d intended. 

“He’ll have it,” Judit says, her easy confidence drawing his eyes. She looks tired; tired and sad and so much older than her years that Kim feels as though he’s looking into the future and seeing something he shouldn’t.

He looks away.

“How can you know that? I heard his radio call to the precinct that day. I know what everyone thinks of him.”

“You heard what everyone wants him to think they think of him.” She clicks her tongue disapprovingly. “They kick at him when he’s down because they’re afraid to look at what’s in front of them—afraid to see that Harry is all of our futures if we stick around in the RCM long enough—but if someone held a gun to him, any of them would step in front of that bullet.”

“Dying for someone and forgiving them are two different things.”

“I know. But all of us want Harry back. All of us are willing to forgive him.”

Kim already knows the answer, but he still wants to hear it out loud, and so he asks, “Even Lieutenant Vicquemare?”

“ _Especially_ Jean.” She grinds out a sigh. “It’s just a matter of how long it will take.”

As they step across the street full of tiny, skinny children all playing together like puppies scrapping over the last crumb of food and climb the sagging wooden stairs of the porch to knock on the door of the woman who reported her partner missing, Kim can’t help but sigh as well.

“I hope you’re right, Lieutenant Minot. I sincerely hope you’re right.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: the second half of thirty days.
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/TellCosy)/[tumblr](https://tellcosy.tumblr.com)


	6. The Wasteland of Reality Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kim deals with Jean's stubborn streak.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: This chapter has clinical, but non-explicit descriptions of both child and LGBT deaths, as well as discussion of gaslighting, addiction relapse, and PTSD
> 
> Hey guys, this is a bit of a long chapter! It absolutely did run away with me just as I thought it would.

  
  


**THE SITTING WOMAN**

1\. Assistant: Lieutenant Judit Minot

2\. Coroner’s case no.: KK41-2603.1115 (THE SITTING WOMAN)

3\. Name: Noa Taunton

4\. Date of birth: 7.8.’97

5\. Age: 53

6\. Race: Mesque 

7\. Sex: Female

8\. Date of death: ~23.03.’51

9\. Body identified by: Willa Taunton

10\. Case number: KK41-2603.1115 

11\. Evidence of treatment: N/A

**EXTERNAL EXAMINATION**

Clothes are: Unbranded or handmade nightgown, size 2XL, cotton, white, inexpensive,

Unbranded or handmade cardigan, size 2XL, wool, light blue, inexpensive,

Babroudine underwear, size XL, cotton, nude, inexpensive 

Nalles slippers, size 39, sheepskin, tan, high quality

No body modifications beyond pierced ears

Book on coffee table beside chair (The Magnificent Duke, Salford James, 3rd ed. hardback), dust on cover, possibly decorative, though damage to spine indicates otherwise

Angel Pools water bottle, mostly full, cap off on table

Unbranded rocking chair, nicks on wood made by dog claws

Radio, turned on, but only to static

Body intact, obese, possible recent sudden weight loss by loose skin around neck and stomach, 168cm tall, body hair typical of middle-aged female, hair permed and shoulder-length, black 

Lividity localised to back, buttocks, and legs, typical of seated position at time of death

Dog claw scratches on legs, non-puncture, long scab left mid-calf, poorly healed, bruises on thighs at same level as kitchen table

No indication of movement during or after time of death

Chest is intact with no bruising, contour normal

Abdomen intact and typical, early swelling, old scar spanning the length likely from surgery

Pelvis intact and typical

Genitalia intact, female

Back intact, light curving of spine

Upper and lower extremities symmetrical and intact

Hands intact and typical, nail beds and skin surrounding chewed and frayed, nails yellowing and ridged

**INTERNAL EXAMINATION**

Musculoskeletal 

No purge liquid present, 

Eyes clear, no burst vessels,

Tongue intact,

Hyoid bone intact,

Throat clear from above, no sign of asphyxiation

Respiratory System

Cuts on inside of mouth and lips typical of dermatillomania,

Teeth mostly intact, wisdom teeth removed, cavities in several molars,

No blood present in mucose

Hepatobiliary

N/A, request for pancreatic inspection

Toxicology

N/A, request for prescription medication

Serology

N/A, request for white blood cell count

Cardiovascular

Lividity and hypostasis typical for position of death

Gastrointestinal

No waste present at scene

Likely undigested solids or liquid diet

**DESCRIPTION OF INJURIES**

Claw marks on legs, caused by pets present at the scene

A: Opinion — fatal injury B: Non-fatal, post-mortem

———————— 

A: Opinion — fatal injury B: Non-fatal, post-mortem 

~*~

“Frustrating that we can’t pin down the cause of death until we get the autopsy. Would be nice to file this one away quick so her partner can begin the funeral arrangements. Her children shouldn’t have to wait to grieve.”

“Lieutenant Minot—you mentioned something about Sergeant Torson filing a report similar to this, didn’t you?”

“Mmhm. Said it gave him the creeps to see that woman sitting so still, like she was just sleeping.”

“Hm.”

“You think there’s more to this than heart attacks?”

“Is that what he filed it as?”

“Yes, I believe so.”

“Hm.”

“What are you thinking?”

“The victim’s position is inconsistent with heart attack deaths.”

“Oh...true. There doesn’t seem to be any struggle whatsoever, does there? It is sort of like she just—fell asleep.”

“Exactly. And as you say, the colouration doesn’t suggest asphyxiation. There’s no bruising to suggest strangulation.”

“No purge liquid to suggest overdose. No blood in sclera to suggest aneurysm or hemorrhaging.” 

“Right. There’s…”

“Nothing.”

“Mm. This is—”

“Odd.”

“Very odd. Let’s hope for more from the blood and tissue tests.”

“What should we tell her partner until then?”

“The usual.”

“You or me?”

“...flip a coin?”

“Good enough for me.”

~*~

_Harry seems to have done fine by himself today. We only got to speak for long enough to have his dosage, though. I got in very late after being pulled in to supervise a hostage scene at a bar. Judit was very apologetic about it, but we did manage to talk the situation down. It’s perhaps inappropriate to feel so good about it when someone almost died, but it was satisfying to actually do some good. The G.R.I.H. has its importance in Revachol’s future—much more than other districts, in fact, if my hunch is correct—but there’s no denying the life in Jamrock. The economic future of Revachol may lie within the harbour, but her breath, her heart, is here._

_It makes sense that Harry is here, too, then._

_He wouldn’t talk about Jean when we smoked together tonight. Admittedly, I didn’t ask him directly, but with the way he was this morning, I figured he would want to vent it out as soon as he could. Maybe he doesn’t want to seem ungrateful to be back. That doesn’t seem particularly likely from what I know of him, but he is obviously trying to behave._

_So far, it seems to be going well. We’ll see, though._

~*~

THE SITTING WOMAN

-Interview victim’s partner again

-Interview neighbours

-Follow up on toxicology reports tomorrow afternoon [27.03]

-Follow up on other tests within two days [28.03+]

-Check house for monoxide levels

THE FROZEN ELEMAGINEERING STUDENT

-Go over interviews from case inception

-Request records from Académie

-Interview dean for any possible staff still working from that time

-Request trace of sister’s address

DOM’S UNFINISHED

-Bring fried dough to Nell 

-Search cellar for loose bricks

-Pass on information to Lieutenant Marcus

THE SQUARE BULLET HOLE MURDERS

-Go over notes with Jean and Harry

-Get Judit’s opinion

-Check library for any information on gun modifications

~*~

THE SITTING WOMAN 

Willa Taunton Interview [27.03.’51.1315]

Happily partnered, 23 years, 3 older children from previous marriage (Willa) and fostering 2 younger

No previous record of suicidal tendencies

No major physical health issues

Scar is from hysterectomy, healed fine, no issues

Struggled with anxiety and fear of the future

Recently struggling with appetite

Living part-time at place of death in order to fix it up for a family member

As stated before, Willa last saw victim three days ago, during regular visit with children, victim seemed tired, but in good spirits

Water left by Willa, food in kitchen from neighbours

Jack Łukaszewicz (Victim’s neighbour) Interview [27.03.’51.1430]

Confirmed victim had been living part-time at place of death

Confirmed partnership seemed amicable

Confirmed victim seemed in good health both physical and mental, other than being a little over-cautious with security than might be usual with a property so run down

When pressed, spoke of how little victim left house due to worry that it may be broken into

Needed a moment to compose himself before he could talk about how he’d known victim’s brother before he died suddenly a month ago

Talked about how he used to bring food to him, too

The house used to belong to victim’s brother, then parents before him

Believes the house is cursed

Hallie Heap (Victim’s neighbour, name given by Jack Łukaszewicz) Interview [27.03.’51.1510]

Neighbour not at home, but child in yard (no relation) confirmed she will be home later that night after shift ends

~*~

“What do you think about this, Lieutenant?”

“Did you also believe the monoxide tester would close this case for us?”

“I did. How else can someone just die in their chair without moving a muscle?”

“...there are always stories of people who simply die of grief when they lose a loved one.”

“Mm, I wouldn’t have thought you were a romantic, Lieutenant Kitsuragi.”

“Maybe I’ve spent too much time around Harry.”

“He certainly has a particular way of looking at things.”

“You know, he spoke to everything we came across in Martinaise.”

“I know. It’s his...process. At least that’s what he always told me and Jean.”

“I believe it.”

“Are you suggesting we should also talk to everything in the victim’s house?”

“If I felt I would get anything back from it, I can’t say that I wouldn’t try it.”

“It _is_ frustrating, isn’t it?”

“It will be fine. Just because the toxicology report didn’t produce results doesn’t mean that the others won’t. We’re only on day two.”

“Mm.”

“Hhhmn. Well. In any case, we should get lunch.”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

~*~

_Home late again. It’s been happening all week because of this damned case. I tried to wake Harry up to take his dosage, but he wouldn’t budge. I’ll try again after I finish this entry; it won’t kill him to miss a dose, but it’s better to keep the streak if at all possible._

_Especially considering he has not been able to come onto his cases with me despite good behaviour. I offered to speak to Lieutenant Vicquemare about this. It doesn’t just affect Harry, of course, so I feel it’s well within my right to do so, but he asked me not to. He didn’t have a reason when I asked why I shouldn’t._

_I’m beginning to worry about the effect it’s having on him, being denied the opportunity to do his duties as a detective. He is not the sort of man to take to having nothing to do. He likes to be in the thick of the action. I can’t help but feel like pressure will be building under the surface. I wonder how much longer this can go on before he does something reckless._

_I suppose I will simply have to be ready for it. Do what I can to ease some of the pressure. I have been trying to talk to him about these cases in the mornings, but he seemed oddly reluctant._

_The silver lining in all this is that working with Judit has been very good. She has a naturally comforting authority and there haven’t been many people who have clammed up under our questioning. It’s no wonder everyone seems to have accepted her new rank with little grumbling._

_She has apparently been in the force much longer than I would have expected. Fifteen years. It makes sense, then, for her to finally be getting this chance. As she says, there are more dire things happening beneath the surface of Revachol to worry about._

_Jean has also been remarkably amicable to work with—as long as Harry is not involved. Where Judit brings empathy to the table that is sorely missing in many RCM officers, Jean brings the dogged determination that we are known for. He does not seem to suffer from any reluctance to be wrong. He will spit out any number of theories in a way that instantly reminded me of Harry suggesting that maybe he was the one who killed Lely._

_I wonder if he knows how similar the two of them are._

_It is perhaps not a good idea to tell him._

_Maybe he’ll see it on his own when Harry gets back to work. Whenever that may be._

~*~

**THE WALKING MAN**

1\. Assistant: Lieutenant Jean Vicquemare

2\. Coroner’s case no.: KK41-0104.0823 (THE WALKING MAN)

3\. Name: Étienne Farrow

4\. Date of birth: 01.02.’21

5\. Age: 30

6\. Race: Occidental

7\. Sex: Male

8\. Date of death: 31.03.’51

9\. Body identified by: Aubrey Farrow

10\. Case number: KK41-0104.0823 

11\. Evidence of treatment: Body turned from prone to supine by partner upon discovery

**EXTERNAL EXAMINATION**

Clothes are: High Peak button-down shirt, size M, cotton, white, mid-class,

Yvonnetta trousers, size 34, twill, khaki, mid-class,

Byzantyn mid-cut boots, size 40, leather, brown, high-class,

Helford socks, size L, wool-blend, mixed dark, mid-class,

Helford briefs, size M, cotton-blend, black, mid-class,

High Peak v-neck undershirt, size S, cotton, white, mid-class,

Falour tie, silk, mixed light, high-class,

Umber watch, leather, black, high-class

Tattoos spanning the length of upper back, mixed, personal, non-gang

ADDENDUM [NB35.0204.1536] Tattoos present on thighs as well, same as above

LUM Fevre ‘40 present at scene, door ajar

Angel Pools water bottle in cup-holder inside MC

Homemade granola bar on seat of MC, one bite taken

Radio of MC turned on, static

Body intact, thin, possible sudden weight loss by looseness of shirt and trousers, 170cm tall, body hair typical of young adult male, hair cut close to head, light brown

Lividity light and localised to front of body, typical of prone position

Body shifted from prone to supine long enough after death for livor mortis to have already set in

Chest is intact with no bruising, contour normal, surgery scars at pectorals

Abdomen intact and typical

Pelvis intact and typical

Genitalia intact, female

Back intact, typical

Upper and lower extremities symmetrical and intact

Hands intact and typical, nail beds pale, nails yellowing and ridged

**INTERNAL EXAMINATION**

Musculoskeletal 

No purge liquid present, 

Eyes clear, slight yellowing, no burst vessels,

Tongue intact,

Hyoid bone intact,

Throat clear from above, no sign of asphyxiation

Respiratory System

Cuts on inside of mouth and lips typical of dermatillomania,

Teeth intact, healthy,

No blood present in mucose

Hepatobiliary

N/A, request for pancreatic inspection

Toxicology

N/A, request for prescription medication

Serology

N/A, request for white blood cell count

Cardiovascular

Lividity and hypostasis typical for position of death and treatment

Gastrointestinal

No waste present at scene

Likely undigested solids or liquid diet

**DESCRIPTION OF INJURIES**

Shallow cut and bruising on forehead likely from fall

A: Opinion — fatal injury B: Non-fatal, post-mortem

———————— 

A: Opinion — fatal injury B: Non-fatal, post-mortem 

~*~

“This is the same as the other one. Another sleeping death.”

“Very similar, yes. This one was a little less peaceful, it seems, but maybe that was only because he was walking at the time instead of sitting.”

“Hmmm…”

“Something wrong?”

“Well, fuck, it’s just—first one volunteered at a shelter for at-risk population—”

“If we’re counting Torson’s report, yes.”

“Well, the autopsy confirmed that there was no heart attack, so you guys were right about that.”

“So we’re counting it.”

“Yeah. Yeah. And then, y’know—a homo-sexual couple fostering kids. And now this guy, who is transgender.”

“He died just outside of his MC. We can’t rule out suicide.”

“It does seem weird to try to fume yourself and then give up at the last second possible, though.”

“Hm. You think this is targeted?”

“I don’t know. A bunch of people either in or orbiting the community just _die_ with no obvious cause of death…”

“That could very well be a lead.”

“Toxicology came back with nothing though, right?”

“Mmhm. The only thing the tests we requested found was a slight increase in white blood cells, low nutrition levels typical with poor diet, and higher-than-average mineral count.”

“Huh.”

“Hm?”

“No, it’s just—did you request radiation levels?”

“Oh. Hm. Because of the bottles, you mean?”

“Yeah.”

“It certainly couldn’t hurt.”

“I’ll write it up and tack it on.”

“Yes, thank you, Lieutenant Vicquemare. Good thinking.”

“O-Oh. I—no, I just thought it was a weird coincidence.”

“No matter why, it was a good spot. Now, shall we get our statements from the neighbours while collections finish up here?”

“Yes, sounds good. Hate hanging around these neighbourhoods long.”

“No love lost for the middle class?”

“Something like that.”

~*~

THE SITTING WOMAN

- ~~Interview victim’s partner again~~

~~-Follow up on toxicology reports tomorrow afternoon [27.03]~~

~~-Follow up on other tests within two days [28.03+]~~

~~-Check house for monoxide levels~~

-Interview Hallie Heap

THE FROZEN ELEMAGINEERING STUDENT

-Go over interviews from case inception

-Request records from Académie

-Interview dean for any possible staff still working from that time

-Request trace of sister’s address

DOM’S UNFINISHED

-Bring fried dough to Nell 

-Search cellar for loose bricks

-Pass on information to Lieutenant Marcus

THE SQUARE BULLET HOLE MURDERS

-Go over notes with Jean and Harry

~~-Get Judit’s opinion~~

~~-Check library for any information on gun modifications~~

-Get records of anyone within manufacturing process from supervisor at warehouse

THE WALKING MAN

-Interview victim’s partner again

-Follow up on radiation report later today [01.04]

-Follow up on toxicology report tomorrow [02.04]

-Follow up on other tests within two days [03.04+]

-Check house for monoxide levels

~*~

THE WALKING MAN

Aubrey Farrow Interview [02.04.’51.1100]

Happily married, 7 years, no children

No previous record of suicidal tendencies

Relatively optimistic disposition

No major physical health issues

Scar confirmed to be from transition

Struggled with anxiety and fear of the future

Recently struggling with appetite

Lethargic and liable to drift off to sleep anywhere in past week

Was booked in to see a doctor for lack of energy (personal assumption was low iron)

Water and granola given by Aubrey

Good standing in neighbourhood

Charity workers

Has no idea why the radio might have been left to static

Sal Rais/Julia Rais (Victim’s neighbours) Interview [01.04.’51.0910] 

Confirmed they knew victim ever since the couple moved in the home after marriage

Confirmed victim’s happy marriage

Confirmed victim seemed in good health both physical and mental

Backtracked to mention seeing him sitting in his MC at odd times of the night

When asked, explained that on their nightly walks, they would sometimes find victim “staring off into space like he was listening to something” but they could never hear the radio

Was not aware of difficulty in eating

Seemed very happy to talk about the other neighbours in the region, but nothing related to the case

June O’Hara Interview [01.04.’51.0940]

Not at home, returned to previous neighbours to confirm she has been away on a trip for weeks, no idea when she might return

Neighbours gave a physical description of neighbour (Blonde hair, brown eyes, medium height, pretty face), but had nothing else of value to add

~*~

THE SITTING WOMAN

- ~~Interview victim’s partner again~~

~~-Follow up on toxicology reports tomorrow afternoon [27.03]~~

~~-Follow up on other tests within two days [28.03+]~~

~~-Check house for monoxide levels~~

-Interview Hallie Heap

THE FROZEN ELEMAGINEERING STUDENT

-Go over interviews from case inception

-Request records from Académie

-Interview dean for any possible staff still working from that time

-Request trace of sister’s address

DOM’S UNFINISHED

~~-Bring fried dough to Nell~~

-Bring more fried dough to Nell, try to stay on topic

-Search cellar for loose bricks

-Pass on information to Lieutenant Marcus

THE SQUARE BULLET HOLE MURDERS

-Go over notes with Jean and Harry

~~-Get Judit’s opinion~~

~~-Check library for any information on gun modifications~~

-Get records of anyone within manufacturing process from supervisor at warehouse

THE WALKING MAN

~~-Interview victim’s partner again~~

~~-Follow up on radiation report later today [01.04]~~

~~-Follow up on toxicology report tomorrow [02.04]~~

~~-Follow up on other tests within two days [03.04+]~~

~~-Check house for monoxide levels~~

-Interview June O’Hara

~*~

“Happy marriages, no drugs, no previous record of illness...what the hell happened to these people?”

“Jean...don’t you think it’s time that he—”

“No.”

“But we’re also completely stalled with the square bullet case, too. If you’d just let Harry help—”

“ _No_ , Jude.”

“You’re goddamn impossible.”

“I’m not the one who fucked up everyone’s lives.”

“No, you’re just the one holding them back now.”

“ _What_ —”

“Kim. Your turn with Lieutenant Filibuster. I have to go fish my husband out of a gutter and make dinner four hours after my children were supposed to eat.”

“C’mon, Jude, don’t be like that.”

“Goodnight, Jean. Kim.”

“Goodnight, Lieutenant Minot. Be safe.”

“...Lieutenant Kitsuragi, you know that if I thought—you know that I’m not _trying_ to stall this, right?”

“I believe that _you_ believe that.”

“I don’t—he wouldn’t bring anything to this. He wouldn’t have anything to add.”

“If you say so, Lieutenant.”

“He wouldn’t.”

~*~

_Home late. Harry awake but strange. He is sleeping now, but...I can’t put my finger on it._

_Maybe I’m just tired. Work is very different in Central Jamrock. There is little to no routine. Everyone must be everywhere at once. Solving everything at once. There is so much to do and not enough time. Not nearly enough time._

_It feels like trying to stop a rail crash with our bare hands._

~*~

_I can’t sleep. Home late again. I haven’t seen Harry for longer than a few minutes in the mornings. He’s been insisting on walking or taking the light rail even when I suggest that he rides with me. He doesn’t talk to any of us during the day even when Jean isn’t in the room. I’ve caught him just staring at his ledger several times, his face completely empty. I don’t know what to do. I have tried to tell him to fight to come back to detective work whether or not Jean wants him to, but he just gives me that horrible smile and says he’s fine where he is._

_Judit is livid with Jean, but he still won’t budge._

_We are completely stalled in every way._

_Something has to give._

~*~

_Harry has not been taking his doses._

_He confirmed my suspicion after I pressed for it. It’s been several days._

_He forgot to brush his teeth before work one morning and Jean dragged him into the office for a dressing down over drinking again._

_He went cold turkey after that without telling me._

_I don’t know what to do. There's less than a week left until his thirty days._

_I have to do something_

_I can’t let him_

~*~

“Kim?”

“Harry? What’s the matter?”

“Kim—I can’t—”

“Shh, shh, I’m here. See? I’m here. Tell me what you dreamed of.”

“The thing again—the flower thing—it cut me open and crawled inside and used my body to do things and I couldn’t move, I couldn’t scream, I couldn’t—I couldn’t call for help.”

“It’s okay. You’re awake now.”

“Am I?”

“...yes, of course, Harry.”

“I don’t feel like I’m…”

“...Harry?”

“...”

“Sleep well.”

“...Kim? Kim!”

“Don’t panic—you’re alright—I’m still here, I’m just going to let you sleep now, hm?”

“Don’t go, please.”

“You want me to stay here? The bed is very small for two people.”

“Don’t leave me. Please.”

“You will be much more likely to sleep well if you have your space. I will still be right here in the room with you.”

“...okay. Sorry. You’re right.”

“Good night.”

“...night, Kim.”

~*~

**THE STUDYING CHILD**

1\. Assistant: Lieutenant Jean Vicquemare

2\. Coroner’s case no.: KK41-1104.0719 (THE STUDYING CHILD)

3\. Name: Alfonso Barone

4\. Date of birth: 24.10.’43

5\. Age: 7

6\. Race: Mixed Occidental

7\. Sex: Male

8\. Date of death: 11.04.’51

9\. Body identified by: Ariana Schreier

10\. Case number: KK41-1104.0719 

11\. Evidence of treatment: N/A

**EXTERNAL EXAMINATION**

Clothes are: Uniform typical of primary student for Académie des Arts youth program

Artwork left at scene, mixed amongst other homework typical of age

Backpack beside chair

Angel Pools water bottle capped and left in side pocket of backpack

No food present

Radio over tannoy broken, mostly static

Body intact, thin, possible sudden weight loss by looseness of shirt and trousers, 122cm tall, hair down to shoulders, black

Body shifted very slightly upon inspection from librarian, head no longer facing down into crossed arms

**FURTHER INSPECTION LEFT FOR CORONER**

ADDENDUMS [NB35.1104.1820]

Lividity light and localised to front and lower half of body, typical of seated position

Chest is intact with no bruising, contour normal

Abdomen intact and typical

Pelvis intact and typical

Genitalia intact, male

Back intact, typical

Upper and lower extremities symmetrical and intact, scars on arms and legs typical of self harm

Hands intact and typical, nail beds pale, nails yellowing and ridged

**INTERNAL EXAMINATION**

Musculoskeletal 

No purge liquid present, 

Eyes clear, slight yellowing, no burst vessels,

Tongue intact,

Hyoid bone intact,

Throat clear from above, no sign of asphyxiation

Respiratory System

Cuts on inside of mouth and lips typical of dermatillomania,

Teeth intact, part adult, part primary, weakened enamel,

No blood present in mucose

Hepatobiliary

N/A, request for pancreatic inspection

Toxicology

N/A, request for prescription medication

Serology

N/A, request for white blood cell count

Cardiovascular

Lividity and hypostasis typical for position of death

Gastrointestinal

No waste present

**DESCRIPTION OF INJURIES**

———————— 

A: Opinion — fatal injury B: Non-fatal, post-mortem 

~*~

THE SITTING WOMAN

- ~~Interview victim’s partner again~~

~~-Follow up on toxicology reports tomorrow afternoon [27.03]~~

~~-Follow up on other tests within two days [28.03+]~~

~~-Check house for monoxide levels~~

-Interview Hallie Heap

THE FROZEN ELEMAGINEERING STUDENT

-Go over interviews from case inception

-Request records from Académie

-Interview dean for any possible staff still working from that time

-Request trace of sister’s address

DOM’S UNFINISHED

~~-Bring fried dough to Nell~~

-Bring more fried dough to Nell, try to stay on topic

-Search cellar for loose bricks

-Pass on information to Lieutenant Marcus

THE SQUARE BULLET HOLE MURDERS

-Go over notes with Jean and Harry

~~-Get Judit’s opinion~~

~~-Check library for any information on gun modifications~~

-Get records of anyone within manufacturing process from supervisor at warehouse

THE WALKING MAN

~~-Interview victim’s partner again~~

~~-Follow up on radiation report later today [01.04]~~

~~-Follow up on toxicology report tomorrow [02.04]~~

~~-Follow up on other tests within two days [03.04+]~~

~~-Check house for monoxide levels~~

-Interview June O’Hara

-Follow-up interview question for partner (Have they lost anyone recently?)

THE STUDYING CHILD

-Interview librarian

-Interview parents

-Follow up on radiation report

-Follow up on toxicology report

-Follow up on other tests

-Check for monoxide levels

-Ask about radio

~*~

“Where has that dipshit gone?”

“Jean. We have other things to be thinking about right now.”

_Thump, thump._

Kim looks up from his spread of notes at the sound of Jean grumbling in between tosses of his old worn tennis ball against the wall, blinking away the exhaustion behind his eyes. _A child, a child, a child_ —his brain circles around the words despite how he tries to focus. Whatever this is that’s killing people silently, children are not immune to it, and he doesn’t want to admit how much that terrifies him.

Out of all the things he’d expected to deal with after transferring to the 41st, it had never crossed his mind that he might be faced with being either at the frontline of a possible new epidemic or dealing with a targeted attack on the at-risk population.

He is beyond tired after spending almost two weeks trying to think of anything— _anything_ —it could be.

He is angry that Harry is not with him.

He is frustrated that Jean is not only keeping Harry from helping, but also won’t stop _throwing that damned ball_.

_Thump, thump._

And he is scared.

_Thump, thump._

He is so damned scared.

_Thump, thump._

But for now, he has work to do. Work that Lieutenant Vicquemare has interrupted with his usual midday bloodhounding of Harry’s precise location, as though he thinks he will burn the entire precinct down if he is not being watched 24/7.

“I know. But if we don’t find him, then you know he’ll be out there waiting to cause trouble when we least expect it,” Jean says, sniffing.

“He’s probably out counting the bricks in the pavement because you won’t let him work,” Judit throws back at him without hesitation, her nose shoved into a manilla folder. She has been the most vocal against Jean’s treatment of Harry, but only because she has spent the most time with him. In the past two weeks, even Torson and McLaine have come to ask Kim when Harry is going to start pulling his weight as a lieutenant again. 

He hasn’t had an answer for them.

Not even today—Harry’s thirtieth day clean.

_Thump, thump_.

“I never said he couldn’t work.”

_Thump, thump_.

Kim can almost _hear_ Judit’s eyes rolling. He goes back to his notes, poring over them so he doesn’t lose his temper. “Perhaps he is getting lunch. It’s about that time.”

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Jean growls, and this time the ball hits particularly hard.

_A child—a child is dead—_

_**Thump, thump**_.

_A child is dead and you don’t know why._

“We’re in here—”

_Thirty days today—you don’t know why—_

_**Thump, thump**_.

“—working our asses off on these cases—”

_Thirty days and he’s not here. You’re not with him._

_**Thump, thump**_.

_What if he’s dead?_

“—and he’s out there taking a _long lunch_?”

_What if he died like that child—that man—those women? What if he’s—_

_**Thump, thump**_.

_What if he’s lying on the cold hard ground, arm stretched out to nothing, face already empty, skin turning cold, no one there to turn him over, to hold him, to cry over him, to call for help, to mourn him, to try to bring him back, back here, back where he belongs—_

“I _told_ you two, he isn’t ready to be back in the office. He isn’t ready to do anything other than sort mail and even then he needs to be supervised or he’ll—”

_What if he died all alone because you didn’t say anything?_

_**THUMP**_ —

Kim doesn’t think. He just snatches the ball out of the air and grips it so hard he thinks it’ll burst. He doesn’t look at either Jean or Judit because he doesn’t want to see the thought cross their minds that he has lost it—lost his mind, lost his temper, lost _anything_.

And so he just sets the ball down onto his desk and stands up, careful not to knock his chair away.

“I’ll go find him.”

“What? Lieutenant—Kim, you don’t have to—”

Kim isn’t sure why Jean cuts himself off, but he’s glad for it, because it means that he doesn’t have to do it himself. He can just throw on his jacket and say again, “I’ll go find him.”

“Kim, you shouldn’t be out there alone,” Judit says, and the concern in her voice softens the hard line of Kim’s shoulders.

“I’ll find him quickly,” he says quietly, “and then I won’t be alone.”

But the moment his hand touches the door, the radio in the corner crackles to life and announces, “Lieutenants, Sergeants Porter and Arkwright are calling for backup down in BoQuo. Another sleeper.”

Kim doesn’t mean to share a look with Jean and Judit, but they do, and with a grim sigh Judit picks up the receiver and says into it, “We’ll take care of it, Jules.”

“Copy that, Lieutenant. Switching back to civilian line now. Over.”

There is silence in the room after the static zeroes out. 

Kim’s jaw twitches.

He lets out a slow breath that catches at the end on a heartfelt, “ _Fuck_.”

There is more silence until Jean breaks it by asking, “What the hell is BoQuo?”

“It’s just what Revachol East calls the Burnt Out Quarter now that they’re developing it.”

Jean grunts in disbelief at Judit’s explanation. “Thank you, that’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“At least it’s faster to say than Burnt Out Quarter. Kim, do you know where you’re going to go first? Just so we can contact you after we get the case prelims,” Judit says, no pause between her thoughts.

Kim looks between them, making note of the way that Jean holds his gaze. “I can go. I’m sure he will be fine.”

They just continue to look back expectantly until he can’t help but shift his weight.

“I—I will start at the archives here but failing that, perhaps the diner down the road. Then the library. Then...”

“Try Jewel—on Townsend.”

“ _Jean_ ,” Judit admonishes sharply.

“I’m just saying. It was his favourite bar and he still had friends there, even after—after all of it.”

“I’ll bear that in mind,” Kim says tiredly at the unapologetic shrug that Jean gives him. “Please keep me updated on the case.”

“We will. And if you—if you find him and he’s—”

Kim just nods sharply at Judit’s hesitant words. He knows what she is trying and failing to say: if he finds Harry after a relapse, then she will be there to help.

He doesn’t stay to see whether or not Jean will be there for Harry; he still wants to believe that Jean will come around eventually. That everything will work out. Even as he checks every place in the city he can think of and finds no hint of Harry having been there, he tries to convince himself that Jean will see the evidence of Harry’s determination and be the bigger man. Even when he drives down to meet up with his fellow lieutenants and finds Judit all alone, her only explanation that there was a report of a disturbance that Jean answered. 

Even when he sees that the victim is another young person who sat down to eat their lunch and simply never got up and spends hours on examining the scene until it is so late that there is no time for him to do anything other than go home and hope Harry is waiting for him there.

Even when he steps into their apartment to a deathly silence and his skin tightens one shiver at a time. 

Even then, he wants to believe that everything will be fine.

“Harry?”

No response.

No sight of him in the living room.

He closes the door behind him gingerly, resisting the urge to treat his own home like a crime scene that he must tiptoe through. He forces himself to undress the same as he would any night: jacket on the hat stand, gloves in the pockets. Shoes beside the door. Gun harness folded carefully and hung beside the jacket, gun and badge tucked away safely into the cabinet.

Good. Good. Doing good.

There’s nothing to worry about. 

Harry is just asleep.

Kim is home late again and Harry is just sleeping and he will walk into the bedroom and see— 

There are beer bottles on the kitchen counter.

One, two, three— 

Six total. All empty, if the glint of the neon wall clock through green glass isn’t casting illusions. 

He doesn’t want to look. 

He wants to think about this logically. He wants to see an empty six pack of beer on his counter and believe that there is something else he will find. 

That Jean isn’t right.

The beers are there—right there on the counter—and that has to mean something. He recognises the brand. Dedicate Beers. Local brewery. Medium price range. 

_You said you wouldn’t treat this like a crime scene._

If Harry was going to get drunk as fast as possible, then wouldn’t he just get spirits? Wouldn’t he go straight back to tequila and vodka and magnum bottles of cheap wine?

Doesn’t it mean something that they aren’t cheap? That they are all here on the counter, not exactly neat but also not on the floor. 

He wants to believe that it means something, and so it does. 

He wants to believe that this isn’t just the surface, the origin of where it went wrong.

And so he doesn’t go look at the bottles. He doesn’t pick them up and check whether they are all empty. He just grips the wall and stumbles down the short hall to the bedroom, gritting his teeth to control the drag of his breath.

Ridiculous, stupid, unnecessary—Harry is _fine_. 

_What if he is dead?_

No.

_What if he didn’t just relapse?_

No.

_What if you walk into that room and he is hanging from the light? What if he found your sleeping medication? What if he used his razor in the bath? What if—_

No, no—he isn’t in the bedroom and suddenly the most terrifying thing Kim has ever seen is a bathroom door barely ajar, letting the darkness seep out. 

_You waited too long._

_No, he isn’t dead. He wanted to get better. He told you himself._

_Then why is the light off? Why didn’t he answer you?_

_Just like Dom._

Even though that thought sends a spike through his heart, it is also what gets him unfrozen from where he stands clutching the bedroom door. He takes the single long step that spans the hall and pushes the bathroom door open.

And there he is.

“Harry?”

Laying sprawled on the bathroom tiles, one leg folded while the other sticks out against the hamper, hands flopped down at his sides, head at an odd angle back against the side of the bath.

His eyes are closed. Mouth slack.

It’s a nightmare. A nightmare that Kim has had often enough that he instinctively tries to wake up. But when it doesn’t work, he finds himself drifting forward, stepping over Harry’s outstretched leg to kneel in the space between them. He doesn’t mean to reach out, but other processes are kicking in now. The detective rears up because Kim Kitsuragi cannot see this. 

He can’t see the evidence of his worst failures again and stay calm.

But _Lieutenant_ Kitsuragi can.

And so it is Lieutenant Kitsuragi that reaches out to Harry’s body and presses his thumb into his wrist, holding his breath as still as he can even though he knows it will send his own pulse skittering. It doesn’t matter. It is already uncontrollable.

It is already filling his whole body with waves of dreadful ice, with the choking fever of muted panic, and so he doesn’t know if the flutter under his thumb is real or imagined. Whether he is feeling his own pulse kick up, as though it is trying to beat hard enough for both of them.

But then— 

—a breath—

—and a shudder and— 

“Kim?” 

And oh, yes, it _is_ Kim that scrambles back to the front, like a child racing down a long street when he has spotted his friend calling for him. Harry’s eyes open slow and confused, but they are clear and direct on Kim’s face. His hand twists inside of Kim’s grip, threading their fingers together as Kim breathes out shakily. He is unable to stop himself from touching the back of his other hand to Harry’s forehead, then his palm to his cheek and further down, resting it against the quickening pulse at his neck. 

“ _Harry_.”

Harry blinks, his eyes skating across the bathroom as though making an initial sweep of a scene. Kim has a horrible thought that he has lost his memory again, but it only takes a few moments before Harry rasps out, his lips trembling around the words as though he is trying not to cry,

“No, no, no—why are you here?” The look he gives Kim is brief and painful, confusing and hurting him in equal parts. It’s more than just dissatisfaction that he is there; it is heartbreak condensed into one look. 

“What happened, Harry?” Kim asks, his throat thick enough to deepen his voice.

Harry stares up at him, mouth still slack before it snaps shut and he swallows, eyes watering when it is interrupted by a cough. Kim gives him room to lean away to hack into the toilet—the toilet that he is only now realising is filled with sick—but when he bats Kim’s hand away from holding back his hair, he scowls deeply. 

“You—” Harry gasps, combing his hand through his hair roughly as he clatters back against the bath, “You weren’t supposed to be home yet. I was supposed to—have time.”

Kim goes to grip Harry’s shoulder, but when he shifts away from him, he lets his hand drop back to his side, strangely hurt by the rejection.

“I was worried about you,” Kim says gently. “We were all worried about you.”

The snort that bursts out of Harry puts him on a sudden edge, especially when he just looks up at him with a dull resignation and asks, “Even Jean?” 

Kim impatiently waves away his initial instinct to make excuses for Jean out of a misguided guilt, choosing instead to ask again, “What happened?”

He knows it’s the wrong thing to ask when Harry gives him a smile as close to his old go-to expression as he’s gotten to in weeks. “What d’you think, baby? You saw the bottles.”

Kim’s brows lift as Harry’s voice dips lower, gravel crunching beneath every word. 

_Like he’s trying to emulate himself._

“I’m not thinking anything, Harry.”

“Yes, you are,” Harry drones, his head rolling back to rest against the lip of the bath even as his eyes stay locked in Kim’s, half-lidded and unsettling in the darkness. “And you know that I know.” He reaches up to lazily tap at his temple before letting his hand fall to his chest.

Kim’s eyes narrow slightly. “Alright. Let me get this straight. You _know_ that I have assumed that you have relapsed because your voices have told you this?”

“Exactly.”

Kim adjusts his glasses, bracing his elbow on his knee for balance. “The same voices that convinced you to start undressing in front of the dice-maker so you could speak to the spirit of Revachol.”

Harry’s mouth snaps shut for just long enough for Kim to feel a lick of victory before he shuffles a little higher up against the bath, brows twisted. “That’s different. That was a check failure—they’re right about this, though.”

“Right about...what, exactly?” Kim says, keeping his voice as dull as possible.

And just as he’d hoped, Harry leans closer again—just a little bit—to frown and say with utmost gravity, “I’m _crazy_ , Kim. I’m crazy and a drunk and—”

Kim can’t help it; he lets out a snort, so quiet that it’s barely more than a breath, but still loud enough, apparently, that it gets Harry gaping at him. He briefly considers apologising, but there’s something in Harry’s eyes that tells him not to. Something deep inside that seems to reach for him.

_Keep going. He needs you to pull him back._

“Are you—did you just laugh at me?”

Kim levels a look down at him to ask, “And if I did?”

Harry’s eyes go so wide that Kim can see himself reflected in them.

“Don’t _laugh_ at me! I’m being serious,” Harry insists very seriously despite the twitch of his lips.

“I never said I was laughing at you,” Kim points out, proud that he is still managing to keep his voice level. 

They share a long, silent look until Harry begins to give in, letting out self-deprecating huffs of laughter before his head bows again.

“I’m no good, Kim. Crazy and drunk and stupid; the Harrier Du Bois special. I’m only good for being alone.” He sighs, a tiny bit of the light leaving his eyes as he sags once more. “You’re better off just letting me go before I pull you down with me, too.”

Kim waits patiently until he finishes speaking and then a few moments more before asking, “Are you finished?”

Harry’s only response is to blink, face twisted with confusion.

Kim nods decisively. “Good. So. Your argument is that you are: crazy,” he says, holding up a hand to count off on his fingers as he goes, “stupid, drunk, and—what was it—good for nothing?”

“Well—”

“Which,” Kim charges on, ignoring Harry’s attempt to correct him, “ _might_ matter if any of those things were at all true. I can’t say for certain whether or not they would, because I’ve never particularly cared to hold anyone to impossible standards, much less my friends.”

Harry gives him a look so full of awe that he has to stop for a moment and let his heartbeat settle.

_You could get used to that look if you aren’t careful._

Whether or not that is true, it certainly isn’t the time for it now.

“So even if you are everything you say—I don’t care. Above all else, you are my friend and I won’t just ‘let you go’ because you ask me to.” He gives a sharp shake of his head. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Harry swallows visibly.

“Kim…”

Kim inhales slowly through his nose, finally allowing himself to reach out to Harry again and exhaling with relief when he lets him grip his shoulder tight. “Harry,” he breathes, no longer able to keep the slight hitch out of his voice. It seems to call something out of Harry, as his hand twitches up to cover Kim’s, just holding still for a long moment before squeezing tight. 

_Don’t let him go._

“Harry,” he tries again, “let’s get out of here. Come sit with me. Tell me what happened, please.”

And this time, Harry just nods, letting him hoist him to his feet and guide him to sit on the couch in the living room. Kim takes one look at the exhaustion Harry’s entire self emanates before he reaches behind him and drags the threadbare wool blanket over him. 

Harry gives him another flash of that same look before Kim turns away, busying himself with making room to sit on the other side of the couch. He barely gets to slide onto the seat, though, before Harry begins with a sigh.

“I thought, at first, that if I did everything that Jean told me to that it would get easier.”

He pauses. 

“That _he_ would get easier to deal with.”

Kim settles himself in, preparing to bite his tongue for as long as he needs to for Harry to get this out. 

He needs this.

“But no matter how much I took from him, he just got worse.”

And so Kim listens as Harry tells him all about the last two weeks: about how Jean kept him down in the archives despite the fact that being down there made him feel strange. That there is something about the basement that makes his voices act up more than usual. He listens as Harry slumps over himself while speaking about how hard he tried to appease Jean’s suspicion to no avail, and how much that affected his morale. No matter how hard he worked, Jean remained convinced that Harry would eventually relapse.

That is when the anger begins to simmer deep inside of Kim’s chest. He presses it down, down, _down_ , doing what he can to keep it aside as Harry continues, telling him about how Trant has been a surprising rope thrown down to keep him from drowning completely. That they have, despite Harry’s expectations for the man, actually become good friends. And so when they came across an unusual situation while going out for lunch today—of all things, a giraffe stuck inside in a Frittte—he didn’t stop for long enough to consider whether or not he should help out. 

And when Jean answered the call about a disturbance and found him talking to a giraffe, it was apparently the final straw.

Harry doesn’t go into detail about everything they said to each other earlier that day, but by the look of deep regret, Kim knows it wasn’t good. And the resulting crash that happened inside of Harry after he stormed away from Jean suddenly makes much more sense.

The beers were originally meant to be for Kim, he tells him, but after everything with Jean when he’d only been trying to help, he couldn’t bring himself to say no anymore. Before he’d come to his senses, he’d already drunk two of the beers, but was so disgusted with himself that he immediately threw them back up. He’d stumbled back to the kitchen and poured out the rest before getting sick again.

That was where Kim had found him: passed out and knowing he’d ruined one of his best chances at getting better.

By this point, Kim can only think to say, after sitting in thoughtful silence for a long time, “You know I have to talk to him now, don’t you?”

And again, Harry just nods.

So after spending as long as he can with him that night, sharing easy conversation in the wake of his confession and having a light meal before Harry falls asleep mid-joke, he tucks the blanket around him and leaves him to sleep.

He’s put this off long enough.

He climbs into his Kineema with a fire kindling in his gut that grows higher with each kilometer closer to Jean’s address, until he is striding up the damp-riddled hallway, feverish with it.

He stands outside of his door, breath clouding in the air in front of him like smoke.

_Do you really want to do this?_

_You won’t be able to turn back from it._

This isn’t the same anymore. This isn’t something he can just turn away from. Whether or not it was his business to say something before, it has been made his business now.

And so he knocks—two raps—hard and expectant.

Then he waits.

His body is stiff, his shoulders square. 

He is readying himself for a fight.

Which is why, when Jean opens the door wearing old grey sweats with patched-over holes and nothing else—casual and red-faced and sweating, presumably from using the weights that are resting on the floor behind him—like a _person_ and not the guard dog he’s been at the precinct since Kim has started—he can’t think of anything to say.

All of his righteous fury turns to ice in his throat and he can’t think of a _single_ thing to say.

Jean blinks at him, his hand still gripping the doorknob.

There is hair on his chest, just as dark and thick as the hair on his arms.

“Ah, Ki—Lieutenant Kitsuragi,” Jean says, his voice confused but not unhappy to find him at his door. Kim watches him go through several quickfire emotions the second after he speaks. In his expression there is anger and frustration, annoyance and long-suffering apology. 

In his eyes, there is fear. Dread. 

He knows exactly why officers usually show up to people’s homes late at night unannounced, but he wants to believe that Harry has just inconvenienced Kim. Has relapsed like he thought he would and Kim is here to get help.

Somewhere in him, he still fears getting the message that Harry has died, and of all things, that is what thaws Kim out once more.

“What happened? What did he do this time?”

“May I come in?” Kim asks through the lump in his throat.

“Yes—ah—yes, of course,” Jean says, startling a bit as he steps back, as though he hadn’t expected Kim to ask. “Please don’t mind the—”

“I assure you,” Kim interrupts coolly, “I will not be inspecting your home for cleanliness.”

Still, Jean looks around at the mess in his apartment with uncertain eyes, like a man seeing himself from the outside for the first time. “Uh. Do you—want something to drink? I have—not much. Beer? I have beer, or—”

“No, thank you.” When Jean just nods, hovering awkwardly in between his couch and kitchenette, Kim bites back a sigh. “Tea, please. If you have it.”

“Yeah—yes,” Jean says quickly, sounding grateful. “Yeah. It isn’t—uh—shit, it isn’t fancy or anything but it’s—yeah, it’s tea. Strong. It’s strong. Do you—is that okay?”

“Fine. Yes.”

Kim watches as Jean nods absently and takes deep breaths through his mouth as he dips and sways to gather up the bits of trash and mess around his living room on the way to the kitchenette. He looks away as he shoves part of it into a loose trash bag and the rest into a full hamper that overflows into a pile on the chipped, checkered green linoleum square that outlines the kitchenette. 

“So,” Jean attempts to speak as he shoves the kettle around the pile of dishes in the sink to fill it up, “what brings you here so late?” 

“I have a matter I need to discuss with you.”

The kettle bangs hard against a plate as Jean tries to unwedge it from under the faucet and he swears roughly under his breath before yanking it free. 

Kim catches a glimpse of the grimace Jean gives himself and the muttered, “Smooth, Vic,” before he turns away, looking around the messy one-room apartment. True to his word, as he makes note of everything in Jean’s tiny home, he finds himself cataloguing the information there as humanising rather than degrading, even if the hypocrisy leaves a sour film in his mouth.

In the trash littered everywhere—in the packed ashtray and the open wooden chamber of cocaine resting on the coffee table, spoon crooked on the side—he sees sadness and exhaustion. A man losing track of his days, his weeks, his life. He sees coping in any way he can.

In the stacks of loose papers strewn across an old green desk that looks like it was thrown out from an RCM archive for missing a leg, he sees desperation. A thinning of the line between work and home until it’s a frayed thread.

In the half-dead spider plant hanging in the single tiny window, swaying sadly in the permanent draft from the heating vent directly beneath it, he sees a man still trying. Someone who knows, but maybe hasn’t accepted, that he needs personal responsibility in his life. Something to wake up for.

And in the framed pictures of Wing C and Precinct 41, he sees a man who still loves, despite the pigheadedness and the abuse. 

These, Kim cannot resist giving a closer look. He didn’t mean to—didn’t _want_ to—see any good in Jean when he drove over. He wanted to stew in his anger and let it out on the man who has done his best to hurt Harry. But looking at the group photos with everyone Kim has met and some faces he doesn’t recognise—the laughter and the back-clapping hugs and the silent stories shared in stolen glances—he can see it. 

Jean and Harry. In one photo, bent over their knees and looking up at the camera with exhausted smiles as a charity relay race wraps up behind them. In another, far behind the group as Pryce accepts a donation of Coupris motorcarriages, standing on either step of one of the new MCs and peering into it with excitement. In yet another, presenting matching “badges” to Mikael and Judit’s children, Gia and Georgie, Harry looking like he’s right in the middle of telling a terrible joke while everyone else looks fondly exasperated.

And then—the one that caught his eye in the first place—Jean and Harry standing together underneath an enormous mural that speaks of love in a new world. Their backs are mostly turned to the photographer, but there is still enough. Harry with his arm slung around Jean’s shoulders, a strange, sad smile on his face as he looks down at his partner. Jean with his hands tucked into his coat pockets, shoulders tense and unhappy but his face still turned up to Harry’s.

This particular photo is not framed like the others, nor does it have prime placement amongst the awards and newspaper articles on the wall. It is a tiny snapshot, taken in the moment and kept uncurled by a paperclip frame, hidden behind an empty flower pot on a lopsided end table. 

Kim’s stomach does gymnastics as he looks at this photo.

This is who they were.

Kim has read the case file. He knows when this photo was taken. He knows that it was Jean who requested the conservation of the mural they are standing underneath and Harry helped him fight for it.

This photo…

This photo is what Jean was hoping to see when he came back to Harry at the Whirling that morning.

A partner. _His_ partner. A drunk and a fool and at times a horrible man, but still his partner. 

And instead, he was met with a stranger.

Kim wants to believe that this isn’t the reason for why Jean has done this to Harry. That what he’s doing isn’t purposeful or malicious in any deeper way than someone who has been hurt and doesn’t have it in him anymore to imagine things could get better. 

But he doesn’t know that. 

And so when Jean shuffles over to where Kim stands clutching the photo, mumbling distractedly about watching out for how hot the tea is, Kim turns to him and asks,

“Are you trying to kill him?”

Jean stops so suddenly that the tea splashes over the rim and scalds his hand, getting a ragged hiss from between his teeth as he shakes it off quickly, setting the spilled mug down. 

“ _Shit_ —what?” he asks breathlessly, glancing away from Kim to examine his hand before sucking on the skin between his thumb and forefinger. “What? Kill who?” he asks again, his words muffled behind his hand.

Kim doesn’t feel it’s necessary to elaborate, considering Jean has already made the assumption that he has come to speak about Harry. So he just watches him steadily, silently, and Jean begins to tense after a few moments. 

Kim can almost pinpoint the exact moment when he loses the fight against his willpower, when his grey eyes darken and his lips curl inward between his teeth, as though he is trying his damnedest to bite the words back. 

But eventually— 

“Are you kidding me? Of course I’m not trying to kill the fucking idiot. He’s my _partner_.” 

—they pop out, each word laced with bitter, angry bile that serves only to reinforce Kim’s determination.

After he lets them out, though, there is a moment—a single, coiled moment between them where Jean’s eyes widen and Kim just watches. As always, he watches. A silent pair of eyes looking out from behind the calm mask of his face, his breath steady even as his heart drums out a rhythm of preparation.

It knows just as well as he does that this may turn aggressive.

Kim wonders why he feels relief at the thought that it might.

Maybe it’s too difficult to imagine that a conversation between them about Harry could be civil. That Jean could see the things that everyone has been trying to show him and feel _some_ remorse. 

But then Jean breaks the silence, that same darkness welling up that Kim has seen in Harry as he spits, “Of _course_ I’m not! Did he tell you that? Is that why you’re here at—” A quick glance over to the clock on the wall. “—one in the fucking morning?” He scoffs, tossing his hand sharply in the air between them. “How did you even know I would be awake? Or home? What if you’d come all this way and I was out?” His breath is coming fast, but shallow. 

_His hands are shaking._

_Is this what you wanted?_

“What do you _want_ , Kitsuragi?” Jean asks, the echo of his own thoughts startling him into speech.

“No, he didn’t tell me that,” he says, voice clipped but soft—his professional voice. The voice of interrogation and interviews. “Harry doesn’t know I’m here right now.”

_Jean knows this about you. He knows what voice this is._

And oh, how clearly does Jean know that voice, as something rears up behind his eyes in that split second between thinking and speaking—when his eyes alight on Kim holding the photo—and he snatches it away, holding it tight in his fist until the paperclips bend. 

“So—what? He gave you some sob story about how I’m the fucking villain—the warden of 41—and you just _believed_ him?” Jean grinds out, teeth bared in a mockery of a smile as he shakes his head in vitriolic wonder. “He _must_ be a good fuck if even someone like you falls for his bullshit.”

Silence cracks like a whipshot, Kim’s ears ringing with it.

Jean stands in rigor mortis, his eyes darting between both of Kim’s as if he wants to look away but can’t bring himself to. Kim can hardly breathe, it takes so much willpower not to react; to simply allow Jean to listen to the words he’s said. The silence grows hot and dense, loaded with implication as Kim lets him ferment, unblinking, statue-still.

Until the moment Jean exhales, his shoulders bowing, and then Kim says softly,

“Whether or not you are _trying_ to kill him, you are still doing a remarkable job of it.”

Jean flinches as if struck, his throat bobbing in a hard swallow. Kim’s eyes are drawn to the crushing grip Jean has on the photo and he frowns, taking a step forward that he aborts at the sharp inhale it earns him. He meets Jean’s eyes again, close enough to feel the pressure of his presence but not enough to feel his breath, and studies what he sees there. 

Wariness. Doubt. Something else. Something complicated. Kim can’t quite put his finger on it.

_Anticipation._

Ah. Of course. There it is, yes. The dilation of the pupils— _might be the cocaine, might not_ —and the undivided, rapt focus. There is still a little of his usual hardheadedness in the tilt of his chin, but his body sways closer, now; magnetic. 

Then his eyes flick down to Kim’s lips—lightning-quick and lasting less than a heartbeat—and suddenly he knows.

_He wasn’t threatening you with exposure or disgusted at the thought._

_He’s_ curious _._

Kim could laugh at the familiar situation, only from the other side of the perspective and ten years later than it happened for him. In Jean’s wide eyes he sees himself, aged twenty-three, looking up at his RCM training advisor and wondering why his heart is beating so fast and why it never has before on any of the dates he’s had with women. 

A wave of empathy overtakes him despite his frustration and he barely holds back a sigh as an almost physical feeling accompanies the information getting filed away for later. 

It is a strange thought he has then, wishing Jean hadn’t given in so easily. That it would have been much simpler for them to fight it out. 

He wonders if perhaps that is the secret to his and Harry’s past conflicts.

When a twitch of Jean’s hands draws his eye, he is struck with the irony of the image; a clearly precious memory for him being crushed in his desperation to keep it to himself.

He does sigh, then, and unbends his spine, allowing something to give within himself. He follows through with his motion and takes Jean’s hand in both of his, ignoring his quiet sound of distress as he gently unfurls his fingers from around the photo. He stops as Jean clamps his other hand around Kim’s wrist, but when he meets his eyes, a reluctant understanding passes over him and he lets him go, looking away. 

Kim slips the photo out of his grasp and unbends the plain wire paperclips, smoothing the edges carefully. With another glance over to Jean, he deliberately sets the photo back in place, but no longer hidden. 

Jean lets out a sigh of his own, long and quiet.

And as if that sigh gives him permission to admit defeat, he asks, “What happened?”

Kim looks around Jean’s apartment again, his eyes settling back on the ashtray. He gestures to it loosely. “Do you mind if I…?”

Jean follows his gaze slowly, tiredly, before nodding. “Lemme just empty it out for you.”

Kim clears his throat and nods as well, busying himself with taking out his cigarettes and propping one between his lips, feeling strange that he is going to be sharing it with someone who isn’t Harry. When Jean sets the clean ashtray back onto the table, Kim casually holds out a cigarette for him, held loosely between his fingers.

“Oh,” Jean says, sounding surprised as he glances between the offering and Kim. “Isn’t this your—your _one_? The cigarettes you share with Harry. Or something.” When Kim raises his brows, Jean shrugs. “I overheard him talking to Trant about it.”

“Yes,” Kim says, twisting the cigarette so that it pokes out further towards Jean. “This is my _one_. And I’m offering one to you. Is there a problem with that?”

Jean stares down at the cigarette with something similar to the anticipation from before, muttering, “I probably shouldn’t. I’ve already—”

Kim waits for him to finish after he cuts himself off, but he only glances over at the cocaine chamber before grimacing apologetically. Kim just stares at him silently until he finally reaches out and takes the cigarette, accepting the lighter once Kim has finished with it.

“Can’t do more harm than you’ve already done tonight, hm?” he says with a wry look that earns him a huff of self-deprecating laughter. “What’s one more vice?”

“Ah, I guess you’ve got a point,” Jean says, speaking around the cigarette as he wrestles with the sash of his window, his muscles flexing as he unsticks it with a heavy grunt. Kim joins him, resting his hip against the cold wall and hanging his hand out of the window to let the smoke curl away from the room. Jean watches him, giving a snort. “Don’t bother. This place was wrecked long before I got to it and it’ll never recover now that I have.”

“Mm,” Kim grunts thoughtfully as Jean takes a long drag. “Maybe. But I’ve always felt that everything deserves to be treated with a measure of kindness. Even things that seem beyond redemption.”

Jean’s eyes dart guiltily over to his as he coughs a bit, understanding twisting his brow.

Kim just quirks his lips. 

“So,” Jean tries again after a pregnant pause, and Kim takes pity on him.

“I found him passed out in the bathroom tonight.”

Jean’s face darkens. “Did he…?”

“Almost,” Kim says, wondering if it’s a breach of Harry’s trust for him to be telling this to the man who pushed him to it. “He certainly feels as though he has relapsed, even if the drinks didn’t stay in him.” 

Kim watches Jean move through several minute expressions and he knows that he is seeing years of trauma—memories of playing life support for a man who doesn’t want to survive. A man who either doesn’t know or care that there are people who want him to live.

Eventually, Jean swallows and says, “This afternoon. I—I found him at the Frittte on Main. There was a call about a disturbance and—I can’t tell you _how many_ fucking times I’ve answered a call about a disturbance and found him on the other end.”

Kim nods. He knows exactly what it is like, chasing after a man like that.

“He told me what happened,” he says plainly, hoping to make his intention clear: 

_I have heard what happened to him, now tell me why you did it._

“I don’t know—I don’t know _why_ ,” Jean says, his voice breaking softly before he quickly shoves the cigarette back between his lips. He gives his head a rough shake, exhaling hard enough to fog a patch of the window. “When I see him walking around smiling and acting as though he’s never…” He shudders, gritting his jaw before visibly working himself back down. “I knew he wasn’t drunk. But I still kept telling him he was until he finally started shouting back.”

His eyes go distant. 

“I don’t know why I do that,” he finally says after a long pause, his voice faint.

Kim feels as though he could make any number of guesses—some more educated than others—but he feels it would be a disservice to both Jean and Harry. “That is something you will have to ask yourself, Lieutenant.”

Jean just nods loosely, his chin ducking into his chest as he nurses the cigarette.

Kim smokes with him silently for a little while, content to let him think. He has things he needs to say, but the fact that Jean has not attempted to kick him out of his apartment gives him the reassurance that he needs not rush it. 

And when he looks over and sees how relaxed Jean stands, upper arm holding his weight against the wall and legs crossed at the ankle, he wonders if maybe he hasn’t wanted this for a long time. That part of why he gave in so easily was that he was already bursting with the need for someone to take him to task. 

To punish him the same way he has been punishing Harry.

“Is he…” Jean begins, making a weak cluck in the back of his throat that sounds like he is holding back a sea of emotions. “I know—it probably seems fucking ironic for me to be asking this after everything, but—is he alright?”

Kim blinks slowly, weighing up the things he might say. In the end, he just murmurs, “No.” Jean grimaces at his bluntness and he lets out a soft breath. “He is fine physically, but these last two weeks have been—difficult.” He takes the opportunity for finding his words that a drag affords him. “Perhaps it’s ironic for _me_ to say that I won’t tell you what he’s been through, considering I’m here ‘at one in the fucking morning.’”

They share a significant look that isn’t without its humour, but when Jean is silent for so long, Kim expects him to let the conversation drop entirely. Just as he is about to speak again, though, Jean says, “I tried this too, you know.” He gestures to Kim, to his couch. “Offering him a place to stay. Offering him…”

“I figured,” Kim says when he trails off. Jean grunts a question and Kim lifts a shoulder. “You could say I recognised something of myself in you.”

Jean’s eyebrows pull together, his eyes searching Kim’s long enough that it takes him clearing his throat gently before he catches himself, looking away quickly and smoothing his fingertips over the scruffy edges of his beard. Kim watches him run through his usual routine of nervous tics, as if he has to reassure himself that he still exists. Smoothing down his beard. Scratching his pockmarks. Running his hand through his hair and giving it a tug at the back. Reaching for the tie that isn’t there and looking sheepish when his fingers just curl at the hollow of his throat. 

When he peeks over at Kim and finds himself being watched, his shoulders slump. “I didn’t mean for any of this to happen.”

“Yes, you did,” Kim says without hesitation, refusing to look away from the discomfort in Jean’s face. “Don’t lie to yourself about this, Jean. The first step in recovery is admitting you have a problem.”

The breath that Jean takes then is at once sharp and unsteady, as though there isn’t enough room in him for living with the truth. Kim can see his defiance flare up for just a moment before it deflates under the pressure of his gaze. Jean’s lips tense, but he just says, “There’s no way to apologise for this.”

“Do you think you should?”

His jaw tightens. “I don’t know that I have a choice.”

Kim hums thoughtfully, letting out the last breath of smoke before turning to put out the butt and tip it into the ashtray. “You may be right about that,” he says, throwing a tiny smile back at Jean over his shoulder. “You know better than I do: given a long enough timeline…”

“He’ll always crack the suspect open,” Jean finishes for him, looking grimly determined, as though he has already accepted his fate.

“Well,” Kim says, patting his pockets to make sure he has everything in place before he moves to the door, speaking as he goes. “The good news is, he’ll have plenty of things to distract him from you after tonight, considering we’re behind in all of our cases. I’m sure it will keep him busy, catching up on two weeks’ worth of absence.”

When Jean raises his eyebrows in question, Kim gives him a bigger smile, this time without humour. 

“We’ll see you in the field, Lieutenant Vicquemare.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: Harry closes a case and bridges a gap.
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/TellCosy)/[tumblr](https://tellcosy.tumblr.com)
> 
> PS - The giraffe scene was actually written out and included in this originally but it ended up being really silly in a fun way and I couldn't figure out how to make Jean annoyed when everyone was having a good time.


	7. Fear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone is afraid of something. Some more than others.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, thank you all so much for sticking with this even though it takes me a bit to get each chapter out! This one is...pretty big lmao 
> 
> Anyway, enjoy! <3

  
  


OUTSIDE PRECINCT 41 — The sun is shining. The air is clear and clean in a rare display of mercy by the coal plants. Spring feels as though it is blooming from underneath every footstep that kisses Revachol’s streets.

YOU — Unfortunately for you, that isn’t where you are. You’re down in the archives of Precinct 41, hands so dusty and sticky with yellow tar residue you think you can taste it on your tongue. 

RESILIENCE — Why is there so much smoke on these papers? It feels awful.

INLAND EMPIRE — So does the touch of thousands of ghosts, all tucked inside pockets and bags and files and inside the walls and crawling from the floor, fingers reaching for the spark of life still flickering inside of you, trying to push through the hole in your head to come back to this place instead of the horror after.

ESPRIT DE CORPS — People come to this corner to smoke when it’s cold because there aren’t any smoke detectors in the archives. 

HALF LIGHT — Oh my god, why NOT?

SHIVERS — This basement has always been a storage facility in every life it’s had, whether archives, swatches of silks, casks, or caskets. This is a place of stillness and silence and history and every human that comes down here can feel it on their skin.

ENCYCLOPEDIA — No reason to not have respect for the sanctity of information.

REACTION SPEED — Says the guy who once tried to convince all of us that the Denis Denary System was math that was created by the gods. 

ENCYCLOPEDIA — That was an educated guess.

RESILIENCE — I cannot stress how much this is killing you, touching sticky manila folders.

INLAND EMPIRE — The static hiss of silence has already shifted into voices. That’s early, isn’t it?

GHOSTS — *SSSSSSHHHHHH* UNBELIEVABLEHOWHEWON’TLETYOU *SHHHHHH*

*SSHHKSHHHH* THELASTTHINGWEEVERTHOUGHTWOULDHAPPEN *SHHHHH*

*KSSSHHHHHHH* ITOLDYOUIWOULDGETITDONEANDYOUALWAYS *SHHHHHHHSSS*

*SHHHK* FROMTHEBATHROOMHASTHEVOICEOFANANGEL *KSSSSSSHHSSS*

ELECTROCHEMISTRY — Maybe you would feel better if you started smoking, too. 

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT — That makes a lot of sense, jockstrap. Give yourself lung cancer just to relieve a few more days of mild discomfort.

AUTHORITY — It’s cute that you think that this is only going to be for a few more days. When has it *ever* been just a few days? You let yourself get in this position and now Jean is never going to give up the power.

HABITUS — It does, unfortunately, feel as though this is now your place in life. 

GHOSTS — *KSSHHHHKSSHHH* ONTHEHIGHESTHILLYOUCANSEEFORMILES *SHHHSHHHSH*

CONCEPTUALIZATION — Down in the dungeon. 

RHETORIC — Pig prison.

CONCEPTUALIZATION —Wallowing in filth.

INTERFACING — Flammable filth.

GHOSTS — *SHHHKSHH* DON’TGETTOOEXCITED *KSHHHHHSHH*

HALF-LIGHT — This place is a fire trap and full of dead people who won’t shut up; you should get the hell out of here before you burn to death from a forgotten cigarette!

RESILIENCE — You aren’t even meant to be here right now. Why are you down here so early? You really should leave until you absolutely have to be here.

VOLITION — What’s the point? Jean is probably upstairs already. You show your face and he’ll do worse than lock you in a dark archive room.

COMPOSURE — Especially if he already knows about your relapse. 

GHOSTS — *KSHHHHSH* WHEREDIDYOUSEEHIM *SHHHSSS*

EMPATHY — Kim *did* say he was going to talk to him.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY — Oh, Kim…

GHOSTS — *SHHHHH* HAVEYOUGOTAMATCH *KSHHH*

COMPOSURE — If you start acting up now, you won’t get any work done.

VOLITION — Who cares.

RESILIENCE — Kim cares. Kim wants you to do your job again. The one up there in the light. 

VOLITION — Well, we aren’t up there are we?

GHOSTS — *KSHHHHHSHH* DON’TTOUCHME *SHHHSHHSH*

LOGIC — You’ve been doing everything by Jean’s book for two weeks and it hasn’t gotten you back to being a detective.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY — Are you saying I have carte blanche to fantasise about Kim?

VOLITION — Knock yourself out.

YOU — You exhale out long and tired, the names on the files in front of you swimming in your vision.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY — I just might knock us out, with the stuff I wanna do to him.

ANIMA — I wanna hold his hand again. It felt really nice, holding his hand.

INLAND EMPIRE — There is a ghost watching you from around the corner of that shelf, but it’s too shy to say anything. You should make the first move if you want to make friends.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY — Yeah, yeah, holding hands is a good start! Nothing wrong with holding hands, especially when he gives you that look when doing it.

ANIMA — It was definitely a *look*.

GHOSTS — *SHHHK* DON’TOPENTHEDOOR *KSHHHH*

VOLITION — No, it wasn’t. He found you relapsed on the floor of his bathroom with puke in the toilet. You think he wanted to fuck you? He didn’t want to fuck you when you *weren’t* drinking.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY — True. But that doesn’t really matter right now, does it? It doesn’t matter if he actually likes us back. We’re just thinking about it.

LOGIC — I hate that this makes sense.

SUGGESTION — There’s no harm at all in fantasising about him because in fantasies, we don’t have to remember how unlovable we are, do we?

GHOSTS — *SHHHHSHSHHK* SOMEPEOPLEHAVEALLTHELUCK *SHHKSHH*

VOLITION — That sounds fucking pathetic.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY — Pathetic or not, it’s *something* to think about that isn’t murders, cold cases for murders that were never solved, or non-murder deaths, solved or otherwise. 

ENCYCLOPEDIA — We could think about the thousands of insect species that haven’t been discovered yet. Or the distance to the moon. Or the shape of the world we’re standing on— 

INLAND EMPIRE — I can help you with that one, if you want. I know everything about this world and all that has happened and all that will happen—all the tragedy and sacrifice and— 

ELECTROCHEMISTRY — And all the things that will immediately kill any chance of a boner, now please sit down and enjoy the show. 

GHOSTS — *SHHHHHSHSHSHK* AREYOUCOLD *KSHHHSH*

CONCEPTUALIZATION — What show? You’re just the blood in a swinging dick; you know nothing of choreography. Of *visualisation*. How could you possibly imagine the perfect position—no, the perfect framing for Kim as we make love to him?

ELECTROCHEMISTRY — Make love?

ANIMA — I think Kim would make love to us. 

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT — Nope. Sorry, buttercup, but if anyone’s making love to anyone else, it’s *us* to *Kim*. 

ELECTROCHEMISTRY — STOP. SAYING THAT.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT — Fucking. I obviously meant fucking.

PAIN THRESHOLD — Not that taking it from Kim doesn’t sound great. It does.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY — It doesn’t matter who’s taking it from who. 

VOLITION — Especially when it will never happen anyway.

CONCEPTUALIZATION — This is why you aren’t equipped to be telling this tale! How can you possibly say that it doesn’t matter? How are you going to direct your actors if you don’t know what position they’re in!

ELECTROCHEMISTRY — *I’m* not qualified to fantasise? Do you know who I am?

ANIMA — I bet he’d be gentle with us. Take his time so we don’t get hurt. 

VISUAL CALCULUS — Technically, if he took you from behind it would make it easier not to cause pain— 

PAIN THRESHOLD — Not a problem, either way.

VISUAL CALCULUS — But if he were to take you face-to-face, then it would likely be easier to stimulate your prostate.

HAND/EYE COORDINATION — You’ve signed so many forms in the hour you’ve been here already that your hand is shaking. Words don’t mean anything anymore. 

ELECTROCHEMISTRY — What the *fuck* is a prostate.

ANIMA — Plus, that’s more romantic. 

CONCEPTUALIZATION — Gazing deeply into the amber galaxies of his eyes as your bodies become one. Kinetic art.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY — Hello? Is anyone going to answer me? Brothers? What’s a prostate?

ENDURANCE — What in the hell are you talking about?

CONCEPTUALIZATION — The dance between two lovers, a tale as old as time.

ENCYCLOPEDIA — Probably older, considering history has been eaten by the Pale.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY — Alright, then; screw the prostate. When do I get to think about fucking Kim?

PERCEPTION (Smell) — Never, because Jean is walking down the stacks towards you.

REACTION SPEED — Wait, how do you know it’s Jean?

JEAN VICQUEMARE — “Hey. Shitkid.”

Sure enough, the perma-scowl of your ex-partner pokes around the side of the shelves in front of your makeshift desk, his body soon following when he spots you sitting there.

INLAND EMPIRE — The warmth of a whole, living human chases away the static and ghosts and you’re left cold and alone, even in his presence. 

PERCEPTION (Sight) [Trivial: Success] — He’s got two paper takeaway cups. 

PERCEPTION (Smell) [Trivial: Success] — Coffee.

ESPRIT DE CORPS [Trivial: Success] — Those cups are from the canteen. It must be for you.

LOGIC [Medium: Failure] — He hasn’t brought you anything to drink since you started working again. Why would he start now?

VOLITION — Maybe...maybe he’s trying to say sorry?

EMPATHY — If he is, don’t make a big deal out of it.

JEAN VICQUEMARE — “What’re you doing here so early?”

He looks suspicious in that way that gets your stomach turning with anxiety. It usually comes before he accuses you of something you haven’t done.

COMPOSURE [Formidable: Failure] — Which, considering the shouting match you two had yesterday and the extreme fuckup that followed, might actually have some truth to it this time, so you might want to just slink away before it happens again.

AUTHORITY [Challenging: Success] — No, it doesn’t matter what happened. You don’t have to answer that. You outrank him. Just because you’ve let him step all over you doesn’t mean you have to continue to allow it. 

VOLITION [Medium: Success] — Just shut up for a second. Let him talk. 

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT [Medium: Success] — Why should you let him talk? He’s emasculated you for weeks just because he can’t handle the thought of you being a stronger man than him.

VOLITION — Talk a big game but we all know what we really want, so if he’s trying to apologise then we’re going to sit down and shut up for as long as it takes him.

You *need* this.

> **1.- I do?**
> 
> 2.- That’s a lie. I don’t need anything from Jean.

VOLITION — You do. You really do.

AUTHORITY — And you’d forgive him? Just like that. Without making him beg to get back into your good graces after everything?

VOLITION — There’s a reason he could get us in this state in the first place. 

ESPRIT DE CORPS — More than a half-brother. A *partner*. 

INLAND EMPIRE — In more ways than you know.

JEAN VICQUEMARE — “Hey.”

EMPATHY [Medium: Failure] — He looks angry. He’s probably angry with you. No idea why.

SUGGESTION [Trivial: Success] — Maybe because you haven’t answered his question.

RHETORIC [Trivial: Success] — Or acknowledged him at all.

INLAND EMPIRE [Easy: Success] — Or maybe it’s because he knows that he’s left you to sink into the depths of despair and hyperempathy with history, and now he’s angry with *himself* because he should have tried harder.

ESPRIT DE CORPS [Easy: Success] — Or maybe he has worked hard all night on a case that refuses to be resolved, trying to ease the load off his fellow lieutenants’ shoulders.

SHIVERS [Easy: Success] — Or maybe he— 

VOLITION [Trivial: Success] — Shut up, shut up, shut up!

JEAN VICQUEMARE — “Harry!”

> 1.- [Half Light - Easy 8] Throw a punch before Jean does. 
> 
> **2.- [Composure - Challenging 12] Keep yourself from flinching.**
> 
> 3.- Just keep staring.

**CHECK FAILURE**

COMPOSURE — You really wish you could say that you don’t flinch away from Jean at the sound of him saying your name like that, but you can’t. Because that’s absolutely what you do. 

AUTHORITY [Medium: Failure] — Like a little baby boy, terrified of being punished. 

RESILIENCE [Medium: Success] — Or a man caught between a rock and a hard place. 

ANIMA [Easy: Success] — Fight back against Jean and disappoint Kim or let Jean take his frustrations out on you and disappoint yourself. 

AUTHORITY — You think the lieutenant respects a man who doesn’t stand up for himself?

JEAN VICQUEMARE — “Fuck sake…I told him this isn’t possible.” 

The grumble is half-hearted at best in its aggravation, Jean himself showing more than a little discomfort as he inspects you. After a few seconds, he just slaps the coffee down onto the only clear spot on the table and grunts.

“C’mon. Got work to do.”

> **1.- Blink. “Okay. Why did you come down here to tell me that?”**
> 
> 2.- “Yeah? I’ve got my own work to do, so…” Shuffle papers around while maintaining *strong* eye contact.
> 
> 3.- Jump up before he can take it back. “Hell yeah, partner, time to go rustle up some crime.”

JEAN VICQUEMARE — He blinks back at you before sighing gruffly. “Because we have work? To do.” He waits for your reaction, and when there isn’t one, he leans in and examines your face. “You *do* remember what those words mean, still, right?”

> 1.- Flip Jean off. “Fuck off, Pisspants; of course I know what work is.”
> 
> 2.- “No, I think I’m perfectly fine with my hallucinations down here, thanks.”
> 
> **3.- “We? As in, you and me, we?” Gesture between the two of you.**

JEAN VICQUEMARE — He leans back again, eyes averted as he takes a huge swig of coffee.

PAIN THRESHOLD [Medium: Success] — Holy shit, his mouth must be screaming in pain right now. You can feel how hot the coffee is even through the paper cup and an inch or so of space between it and your hand.

AUTHORITY [Easy: Success] — He’s doing it to intimidate you. 

SUGGESTION [Easy: Success] — He’s not *doing* anything. He’s just trying to drink his coffee.

ESPRIT DE CORPS [Challenging: Success]— This is how most of your compatriots drink coffee. The ones who know what their position in this world really is, at least. Too much tragedy, too little time to fix it.

All coffee burns on the way down.

JEAN VICQUEMARE — Finally, he clears his throat and mumbles. “You. Me. Jude. Kitsuragi. Everyone.”

DRAMA [Challenging: Success] — He looks...sincere, milord. As odd as that may be.

EMPATHY [Easy: Success] — This is not easy for him. 

LOGIC [Medium: Success] — Something has changed when you weren’t looking.

HABITUS [Medium: Success] — Whatever it was, don’t wear out your welcome. Just accept and get out of this place. You don’t belong here.

AUTHORITY [Easy: Success] — At least we can all agree on that.

> **1.- Nod and stand up. “Alright. Let’s go.”**
> 
> 2.- Shake your head. “No, I’m happy being down here. It’s where I belong.”

PRECINCT 41 ARCHIVES — Neither you nor Jean speak as you pick your way around the haphazard boxes laying on the cracked green concrete floor, still waiting to be filed properly. Jean makes a noise of revulsion as he almost steps on a plastic bag marked as evidence that is filled with some kind of melted brown mass. 

RESILIENCE [Trivial: Success] — That cannot be sanitary. Aren’t there regulations for storing hazmat?

ENCYCLOPEDIA [Easy: Success] — There are definitely regulations. You have no clue what they are, but you remember falling asleep over a book about a mile thick.

AUTHORITY [Medium: Success] — Unless someone is willing to be the bad guy and hold everyone to those standards, though, it will never get done.

INLAND EMPIRE [Medium: Success] — That used to be you and Jean.

PRECINCT 41 BASEMENT LIFT — Whatever your life used to be, you are certain that you probably didn’t spend long in this ancient, rickety lift that runs from the mid-point of every wing to the basement level of the precinct. Every day you’ve had to use the manual crank to get yourself up and down, you’ve shuddered the whole way through, imagining all sorts of grisly disasters that might befall you.

HALF LIGHT [Easy: Success] — Plus, you’re actually kind of uncomfortable in small spaces when you don’t have anything to distract you.

RESILIENCE [Easy: Success] — Who says you don’t have anything to distract you? Jean is right there beside you. Try talking to him.

> 1.- Alright. This probably won’t blow up in my face. “Hey Jean.”
> 
> **2.- Look at him. I’m not going to do that.**

ELECTROCHEMISTRY [Easy: Success] — Or watch his muscles flex underneath his shirt as he cranks the lift.

> 1.- Fuck, he really is ripped. He’s turning that thing like we weigh nothing. [Watch him closer.]
> 
> **2.- I’m *not* ogling Jean.**

ELECTROCHEMISTRY — Yes, you are. From your periphery instead of directly, but you’re literally doing it right now.

VOLITION [Challenging: Success] — How about you figure out why there’s a memory lurking at the edge of your mind?

> **1.- What memory?**
> 
> 2.- I don’t need any old memories. I live and die in the present.

INLAND EMPIRE [Trivial: Success] — Something about you. Something about Jean. About how he smells when you’re this close to him.

> **1.- What does he smell like?**
> 
> 2.- I don’t care what he smells like. [Discard thought.]

PERCEPTION (Smell) [Medium: Failure] — No idea. The scent is faint, but it tickles the back of your head where the oldest parts of you sit.

LOGIC [Easy: Success] — An aftershave that he hasn’t reapplied today?

JEAN VICQUEMARE — “Ugh. Marianovich is singing in the fucking toilet again.” He grimaces as you tune back into the world around you and hear that there is, actually, someone singing somewhere just above you. 

“Hey!” he shouts, leaning his head back to direct his voice where the perpetrator waits. “It’s too early for that shit! Keep it down!”

THE SINGING MAN [WHOSE NAME YOU’VE ALREADY FORGOTTEN] — A laugh echoes down the lift shaft as Jean slams the crank into the lock position, wrenching open the gate. 

“I don’t hear anyone else complaining, Vic!”

A VOICE FROM DOWN THE HALL — “Yeah, Vic! Let the man sing!” Laughter peals out following the demand.

JEAN VICQUEMARE — “Goddamn idiots…” 

THE SINGING MAN — “I can’t help it if music lives in my soul! I could have been an opera singer!” As if to prove a point, the man belts out the last words at the top of his lungs from behind the closed bathroom door.

JEAN VICQUEMARE — “Yeah, well, I could’ve been a professional frontenis player, too, but look at us now,” he grouses, slapping the door as you walk past. 

YOU — You frown thoughtfully, staring over at Jean as you continue on. You aren’t sure if you should ask, but the words pop out before you can think to check your chances. “Could you really have been in professional sports?”

JEAN VICQUEMARE — Jean shoots you a warning look. “What? You think I couldn’t?”

EMPATHY [Easy: Success] — Uh oh. He looks pretty annoyed about that. You’d better think of something to defuse this quick.

> **1.- [Physical Instrument - Medium 8] Gauge whether or not he’d do well at frontenis.**
> 
> 2.- [Suggestion - Easy 8] “No, no. Of course you could. My mistake.”
> 
> 3.- “Yeah, you could. You should play me sometime. I know exactly what frontenis is.” [Lie.]

**CHECK FAILURE**

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT — Not a clue, champ. 

ENCYCLOPEDIA [Medium: Success] — Frontenis is a racquet sport that uses a ball similar to a tennis ball, but unlike tennis, can be played against any flat, vertical surface. 

FLÂNEUR [Medium: Success] — There are designated pick-up spots all over Revachol West; some official, some not. It is a sport by the people, for the people. 

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT [Easy: Success] — I *know* what frontenis is. I just can’t see whether the rest of his musculature would benefit the sport! His upper body might be good for wrestling, weight-lifting, boxing…

Not bad for something like frontenis, but also not ideal. 

He’d probably struggle with endurance.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY [Trivial: Success] — Well, that was a lot of maybes just to spend *several* long moments staring your ex-partner’s body up and down. Thank you.

EMPATHY [Challenging: Failure] — And now his face is red. Whether out of anger or embarrassment, you have no idea.

JEAN VICQUEMARE — “Tch. Whatever. Like you’d know anything about it.” 

WING C — Despite the annoyance in his voice, Jean still holds the door to Wing C open for you, letting it swing shut once you slide past him. The bullpen is shockingly empty at this time of day, with only a few red-eyed patrol officers sitting in a circle around the busted coffee machine.

CONCEPTUALIZATION [Medium: Success] — Like soldiers keeping vigil over a fallen comrade.

EMPATHY [Trivial: Success] — You could always give them your coffee.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY [Easy: Success] — And give up the chance for that sweet caffeine high? Absolutely the fuck not.

VOLITION — As upsetting as it is, I agree. You aren’t doing great with morale and drinking something hot and caffeinated—especially something that was a thoughtful gift—will do you good.

YOU — Luckily, they don’t give either of you a second glance as you skulk past with your extra-large coffees, and you manage to get to your office—your *real* office—without a fuss.

And oh, does sitting in your *padded* chair and taking that first sip of coffee do you good.

GOURMAND [Trivial: Success] — This is good. *Really* good, actually. Why is it so good?

> **1.- Reflect over the cup of coffee.**
> 
> 2.- Drink it down as fast as possible and get back to work.

WING C LIEUTENANT’S OFFICE — Up here, away from the deafening silence and the ghosts, life feels warm. Birdsong and the occasional carriage clattering past over the cobbles reminds you that the world is turning, still, and you with it. You may have made a mistake last night—one that felt like the end of the world at the time—but you are still here. As long as your heart still beats, there is time to grow and learn. Time to unbend your cracked and battered stem and turn your face to the sun again. 

It has been peeking over the horizon for approximately two hours, yet gentle in its springtime newness, but the office has caught every moment. The radiator is stone cold, but there is a space heater chugging away in the nook between the four desks. You look at the desks and find a sudden joy in the microcosm of personality that rests on each one. 

Judit’s draws the eye like a sparkling jewel of life, the pictures of her children and friends magnetic to your deionised soul. The case files she has left rest haphazardly in their respective boxes—to be processed, ongoing, awaiting tests—as though she simply tosses away everything about the job when she leaves for the night, content to be two people at once. The lieutenant of the RCM who wears slippers when she thinks no one is looking and has a stash of old-fashioned candy that she doesn’t let anyone dip into. And the mother and daughter and friend who would drop everything for the people she loves. Dogged in all areas of her life, but with vents to ease the pain. 

Jean’s desk, however, is a riot of papers. A nest of files and books and newspapers and crumpled takeaway wrappers and little toys made for fiddling with and stacked coffee mugs in need of a wash. The closer it approaches any other desk, though, the neater it gets, as though afraid to impose. There is only the one photo—the one that calls to you in a way that tickles, like radio static deep inside your ears—but it always faces him. Like a reminder of something—or a haunting. It isn’t clear which.

And Kim’s. Oh, you *love* looking at Kim’s desk. On the surface, it looks immaculate. Everything tucked away safely in its own space, apparently rigidly regimented. But if you look closer, you can see that there is idiosyncrasy in the method. The blue pens are lined up in a row, yes, but laying on top of the ongoing files instead of put away with the black pens. Because that is what he uses them for, and so they belong together. Every little thing on his desk is perfectly organised, but *only* to Kim’s best interests. 

Your desk, of course, is empty. The cases you’d been working on have been taken up by the others and for some reason, you never had any personal effects waiting for your return. 

Where did you go? Who are you? What sort of man sat here one month ago?

You only have tiny clues to go by. Lucky, then, that detecting is in your blood. 

Your hands cradle the coffee like it is something precious, letting the warmth seep into your tired bones. And maybe it is precious, because every sip you take nudges a thought—a whisper—a memory?—closer to the space just behind your eyes. The theatre of your life and you with front-row seats, the rich, almost sweet smell of the coffee sashaying the heavy curtains open with each inhale.

Just enough to catch tantalising glimpses. Never enough to see. 

> **1.- Why do you feel so important, cup of coffee?**
> 
> 2.- I’m wasting time. Back to work.

CUP OF COFFEE — You said it yourself, mon frère. I am precious.

> **1.- But why?**

CUP OF COFFEE — Why do you think?

> 1.- Because you’ll wake me up?
> 
> **2.- Because you taste so good?**
> 
> 3.- Because you’re so warm?

CUP OF COFFEE — Sure, sure. That’s a good chunk of it, yeah.

> **1.- Why *do* you taste so good?**

CUP OF COFFEE — Because I was made with love.

> **1.- Wait, what kind of love?**
> 
> 2.- The canteen lady loves me?
> 
> 3.- How could you know what love is, coffee? You’re just a bunch of watered beans.

CUP OF COFFEE — Unknowable. Deep. Frustrating. Confusing.

> 1.- Yeah, that’s love alright.
> 
> **2.- The canteen lady loves me?**
> 
> 3.- How could you know what love is, coffee? You’re just a bunch of watered beans.

CUP OF COFFEE — My container may be from the canteen, but *I’m* not, camarade. My heritage is Semenese, but I was born in this office—like my brothers before me—under the careful hand of Jean Vicquemare, Lieutenant of the Revachol Citizen’s Militia.

> **1.- Jean made you?**

CUP OF COFFEE — With that cafetière that caught the sun as you walked in. Just like he did a thousand times before.

> **1.- Before?**

CUP OF COFFEE — Every single day for years. The smell always made you smile, and so he never stopped. At least, not until you weren’t you anymore.

> **1.- But I’m still me. I just forgot some things.**

CUP OF COFFEE — The things a man remembers is what makes him who he is.

> **1.- That’s...surprisingly wise, coming from a cup of coffee. Thank you.**

CUP OF COFFEE — My pleasure, monsieur. Now drink up before I get cold.

> **1.- Is that also supposed to be a piece of wisdom?**

WING C LIEUTENANT’S OFFICE — But the coffee is silent once more and all you’re left with is the taste on your tongue and the realisation that Jean has been watching you out of the corner of his eye.

JEAN VICQUEMARE — When he notices you looking, though, he shifts his weight and crosses his arms over his chest, mouth tight.

EMPATHY [Medium: Success] — He’s waiting for something, but you aren’t giving it to him. He’s trying not to be disappointed.

> **1.- “Thank you for the coffee, Jean. It’s just as good as I remember.”**
> 
> 2.- Just drink the rest of your coffee in silence.

JEAN VICQUEMARE — His gaze snaps to yours, direct but wary. When you don’t look away, something in him gives with an almost desperate urgency before he nods stiffly. “Khm. You’re—” 

REACTION SPEED [Challenging: Success] — There’s a tremble in his voice that he squashes down as fast as it comes.

JEAN VICQUEMARE — “You’re welcome.”

**+1 MORALE**

WING C LIEUTENANT’S OFFICE — The tension eases between you with all the quietude of a window opened in summer, and Jean simply sits across from you, shuffling through his files until Judit and Kim step through the door together, talking pleasantly. 

JEAN VICQUEMARE — “Morning.” Jean waves the two of them in as he continues reading, oblivious to their sudden concern. “Good morning, Jude. Lieutenant Kitsuragi. I got—Harry. Harry is here.” He finally lifts his head from his notes and squints between the three of you. “As you can probably see.”

JUDIT MINOT — Judit’s attention skews reluctantly away from Jean, as if she would like to keep an eye on him instead of you. When she does, though, you do your best to give her a real smile, and are rewarded with one of your own.

“Harry. It’s good to see you in the sunlight again. We’ve missed you.”

VOLITION [Easy: Success] — Do you hear that? She missed you.

**+1 MORALE**

KIM KITSURAGI — “Yes.” Kim’s voice is smooth and careful, but there’s a tenderness there that feels like it’s only for you. “Welcome back, Lieutenant.”

**+1 MORALE**

VOLITION — Fucking *finally*.

KIM KITSURAGI — “Unfortunately, there’s no time to catch you up on what’s going on. We have to get right to it.” He adjusts his glasses and reaches over you to drop his bag into his seat.

PERCEPTION (Smell) [Formidable: Success] — Lanolin and wax. Bergamot, rosemary, and orange blossom. Lavender. 

ELECTROCHEMISTRY — *Kim*. 

COMPOSURE [Formidable: Success] — It takes real effort to not lean in closer and press your face to his neck.

JEAN VICQUEMARE — “Another one already?” Jean’s voice betrays the exhaustion in him. He slumps back into his chair. “It hasn’t even been twelve hours.”

JUDIT MINOT — “I asked Jules to call Trant in. He’s at the Académie today, but he should be back by four at the latest.” She drops into her chair and pushes back, staring up at the checker ceiling. Jean watches her and you watch him as his eyes soften.

JEAN VICQUEMARE — “The twins with him and Mikael today?” 

JUDIT MINOT — She rolls her head over to give Jean a grim smile. “Three children under ten and a class full of teenagers. No idea how he does it.”

KIM KITSURAGI — “Mm, probably the same way you round up a wing full of macho officers who all believe they’re too good to attend a debrief.” He speaks distractedly, busy tucking away his notebook into his jacket and clipping his flashlight onto his gun harness. “With finesse and a stern tone.”

JUDIT MINOT — She laughs bitterly. “I thought you were going to say, ‘By crying in the bathroom afterwards.’”

REACTION SPEED [Easy: Success] — Jean flinches, but doesn’t say anything.

KIM KITSURAGI — The lieutenant smiles back just as bitterly. “That too, I’m sure.”

He turns to you, gesturing with an open palm. “Shall we, Detective?”

JEAN VICQUEMARE — Before you can ask, Jean speaks up for you. “Where’s the new case?”

KIM KITSURAGI — “North. Near the Lyon Gate to Le Royaume.”

SHIVERS [Medium: Success] — The wind blows hard through the crack in the window, carrying you down through the alleyways into the gutter. You wriggle through the crumbling mortar barely holding the pipes together beyond the grating and burst through to the hollow bones of the city: Le Royaume. The tunnels running underfoot house thousands—tens of thousands—of bodies that go back as far as Revachol herself.

It knows you, and you know it.

YOU — You blink away the image, running your stubby nails through the patchy spot of your beard just under your chin. 

JEAN VICQUEMARE — “Hah. Only at work for half an hour and he’s already regretting it.” Jean stands up, stretching with an appreciative groan. “Welcome back to the shit factory, Harry.”

VOLITION [Trvial: Success] — Oh. *That’s* where that came from.

JEAN VICQUEMARE — “Jude? Are you coming?”

JUDIT MINOT — Judit shakes her head, dragging her satchel over. “No, and neither are you. We have to finish the paperwork on the case *you* abandoned me on last night.”

JEAN VICQUEMARE — Jean has the good grace, at least, to look guilty about that. He rubs the back of his neck and nods. “Right, right, yeah. Alright. I’ll just get the shitkid onto a horse and come right back, eh?”

JUDIT MINOT — “You’d better.”

PRECINCT 41 — The three of you flee the office under her stern stare, making your way quickly through the precinct until you reach the yard. You blink, confused when Kim walks straight past the garage and continues around the corner, revealing rows and rows of paddocks with horses stabled inside. You stop dead when one of the beasts lifts its head from inside a burlap sack, revealing how tall it really is.

HALF LIGHT [Medium: Failure] — WHOAH WHOAH WHOAH—*That’s* how big horses are?! That statue wasn’t an exaggeration??

> **1.- “Uhh horse. That’s—a horse. Is something wrong with the Kineema?”**
> 
> 2.- “Yeah, yeah, yeah, no, yeah, horses sound great, horses definitely aren’t something that give me a strangely primal terror that I can’t fully explain!” Gasp for air after talking for way too long.
> 
> 3.- Just shake your head and back away.

KIM KITSURAGI — Kim blinks at you, looking perplexed at the reluctance in your voice. “No? The streets up there are too narrow to comfortably navigate in the Kineema. Horses are better.” He frowns. “Is there a problem with that?”

> **1.- “Yeah, yeah, yeah, no, yeah, horses sound great, horses definitely aren’t something that give me a strangely primal terror that I can’t fully explain!” Gasp for air after talking for way too long.**
> 
> 2.- Just shake your head and back away.

JEAN VICQUEMARE — “Ugh, not this shit again…”

KIM KITSURAGI — The lieutenant raises his brows at Jean, choosing not to acknowledge your meltdown.

JEAN VICQUEMARE — Jean gestures over at where you are pressed against the back wall of the stables, one eye always on the row of stalls. “Would have thought that after forgetting the difference between his ass and a hole in the ground, he might have forgotten that ridiculous phobia, too.” He makes a sound of disgust. “Apparently not.”

KIM KITSURAGI — “Phobia?” He tilts his head the barest amount while glancing over at you. “Of...horses.”

> 1.- [Rhetoric - Formidable 13] Convince Kim that it isn’t a weird thing to be afraid of.
> 
> 2.- [Half Light - Trivial 6] Rant about how horses are the harbingers of death.
> 
> **3.- [Volition - Heroic 15] Buck up and climb onto the closest horse.**
> 
> 4.- Whine mournfully.

**CHECK FAILURE**

YOU — Kim’s right. This is a weird thing to be afraid of. You’re not going to let it stop you. You draw in shallow breaths, trying to calm the stampeding of your heart, and square your shoulders toward the spotted horse side-eyeing you from its feed bag. 

ENCYCLOPEDIA [Challenging: Success] — Appaloosa. It is a *type* of spotted horse, but with mustang heritage. There’s a distinction.

AUTHORITY [Medium: Success] — It doesn’t *matter* what type of horse it is. You’re the human. You’re the APEX PREDATOR. Show it who’s boss.

YOU — Time to be a man.

“Alright, horse...”

You take a step forward.

“...prepare…”

Another step.

“...to be mounted…”

You’re definitely not stalling by taking tiny steps.

“...with…”

Now you’re right there. The horse is literally inches—

VISUAL CALCULUS [Easy: Success] — Thirty-six inches, give or take. More commonly known as three feet.

YOU — THE HORSE IS LITERALLY INCHES FROM YOU. 

RHETORIC [Trivial: Success]— That isn’t what literally means.

YOU — You are sweating through your shirt as you reach out to unlatch the horse’s paddock gate. 

And then it *breathes* at you.

HALF LIGHT [Challenging: Failure] — Fucking RUN!!!

YOU — And you’re right back at the wall, gasping for breath with your hand over your chest.

KIM KITSURAGI — Kim clears his throat. “Well. You certainly proved us wrong.”

> 1.- “It tried to eat me, Kim. I almost *died*.”
> 
> **2.- “All part of the process, Kim. I’ve got this completely under control.”**
> 
> 3.- “It’s a demon. A demon sent to destroy us all. Look at its eyes. They’re *glowing*.”

JEAN VICQUEMARE — Jean is barking with laughter, like the cruel autocrat he is. “You fucking idiot. Did you really just try to mount Capitaine?”

DRAMA [Medium: Success] — Actually—for once—there doesn’t seem to be any cruelty in his laughter, milord. He’s genuinely amused by this.

AUTHORITY — That doesn’t make it better.

KIM KITSURAGI — “That is Lieutenant Vicquemare’s horse.” There is a smile twinkling behind his eyes. “Capitaine, as he said.”

JEAN VICQUEMARE — “Exactly, he’s *my* horse and no one else knows how to ride him but—wait.” He frowns over at Kim. “How did you know he’s my horse? I never introduced you, did I?”

KIM KITSURAGI — Kim gestures flippantly. “You two have the same disposition.”

> **1.- [Composure - Formidable 13] Try not to laugh.**
> 
> 2.- Point and laugh at Jean. “He looks like you, too!”

**CHECK FAILURE**

COMPOSURE — Are you kidding me? You think you can just stroll up to a horse and almost piss yourself with fear and then *not* laugh about this?

YOU — To be fair, you do manage to keep actual *laughter* from escaping your tightly-pursed lips, but the choking, wheezing sounds that come out instead are probably drawing more attention than if you had just let it out. 

Not to mention the fact that you tried so hard to keep it in that you’ve actually strained something.

**-1 HEALTH**

JEAN VICQUEMARE — Jean is looking at you with weary disdain as you hold your side, groaning in pain. “Yes, very funny. But I don’t take offense to that. Capitaine is a beautiful creature; noble and kind. It is an honour to be compared to him.”

> **1.- “You’re a horse, Jean. Kim thinks you’re a horse. Kim is never wrong.”**
> 
> 2.- “I’m not sure that’s the compliment you think it is.”
> 
> 3.- Nod sagely.

KIM KITSURAGI — “I didn’t mean anything by it.” He shifts, looking around at the other horses. “And I’m often wrong.” He moves over to a black-and-white horse... 

ENCYCLOPEDIA [Challenging: Success] — I know this one, too. Piebald.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT — Congratulations, nerdo, but we got other, more pressing issues at hand here.

KIM KITSURAGI — ...and strokes its muzzle. “Anyway. We should get along now.” Without waiting to hear a response, he unlatches the gate and guides the horse out, waving over the groomsman. You watch nervously as they equip the horse and Kim swings himself into the saddle.

JEAN VICQUEMARE — “Go on, shitkid.”

YOU — You make a face of distaste at Jean.

JEAN VICQUEMARE — He gestures at the row of horses. “Hop on.” He grins mercilessly. “Or are you going to make Lieutenant Kitsuragi wait for you?”

RESILIENCE [Medium: Failure] — Does he not have *any* other names for you?

VOLITION [Medium: Success]— It isn’t a great nickname, but I’m trying to find the fondness in it.

SUGGESTION [Medium: Failure] — I don’t know that there is any. He probably doesn’t have much to feel fond of anymore.

> **1.- [Volition - Medium 11] Ask Jean to stop calling you that.**
> 
> 2.- Focus on finding a way out of riding a horse.

**CHECK SUCCESS**

YOU — You stand up straight and swallow down the nerves that bounce around your head like loose rubber balls. “Jean. Don’t you have *any* other names for me?”

EMPATHY [Challenging: Success]— The question is both baffling and frustrating for him.

REACTION SPEED [Challenging: Success] — Faster than you would catch if you hadn’t been staring without blinking, Jean glances over at Kim.

JEAN VICQUEMARE — “What...uh. What do you suggest I call you, instead?”

EMPATHY [Medium: Success] — He’s trying. This is taking real effort for him, but he’s trying.

VOLITION — And now you will too, because of it.

> 1.- “How about my name?”
> 
> 2.- “Raphaël Ambrosius Costeau, my official detective name.”
> 
> 3.- “Tequila Sunset, the harbinger of the end.”
> 
> 4.- “Lieutenant Double-Yefreitor Harrier Du Bois. I deserve no less than full respect at all times.”
> 
> **5.- “Maybe some kind of nickname? A different nickname?”**
> 
> 6.- “Shitkid is fine, actually.”

JEAN VICQUEMARE — “A nickname.” His voice is flat and emotionless. 

EMPATHY [Formidable: Failure] — You aren’t sure if that’s a good or a bad thing.

YOU — “Well, yeah. Everyone has a nickname.” You gesture vaguely. 

JEAN VICQUEMARE — “I don’t.”

INLAND EMPIRE [Challenging: Success] — Yes, he does. He has a lot of names, but there is one in particular that he does not want you to remember.

> **1.- Press him about it.**
> 
> 2.- Let it go. [Discard thought.]

EMPATHY [Medium: Success] — Alright, but you only get one shot. He’s already looking like he’s at the end of his patience.

What’s his nickname?

> 1.- Jean Vicquemare.
> 
> 2.- Jean. 
> 
> **3.- Vic.**
> 
> 4.- JV.
> 
> 5\. Guillaume Bevy.
> 
> 6\. Pisspants.
> 
> 7.- Something else that I can’t remember right now.

YOU — “Yes, you do. Everyone calls you Vic.”

JEAN VICQUEMARE — He rolls his eyes. “Yes, you caught me. *Everyone* calls me Vic, so it must be my nickname.”

INLAND EMPIRE [Formidable: Failure] — That wasn’t it. 

VOLITION — Oh, you think?

**THOUGHT GAINED: What’s in a Name?**

AUTHORITY [Medium: Success] — Keep going. Make him talk.

YOU — “Well, if that isn’t it, then—”

KIM KITSURAGI — “Detective.”

You instinctively look over to Kim and your train of thought derails hard. 

CONCEPTUALIZATION [Heroic: Success] — The world narrows to the image before you as though you’ve put your eye to a pinhole camera: Kim confidently astride his horse, hands tangled loosely in the reins, chin raised but head crooked towards you, face firm but kind. 

The sun haloes him all around; a mantle of pure light. 

AUTHORITY — Like a king.

CONCEPTUALIZATION — No, not a king. An *Innocence*. The Innocence of Light and Love and Kindness. The Innocence of Forgiveness. The Innocence of Renewed Joy.

VOLITION [Medium: Success] — Not again, Harry.

> **1.- Not what again?**

VOLITION [Medium: Success] — You heard what Dora said in your dreams. Now *listen* and don’t make the same mistake yet again. You can’t keep doing this.

RESILIENCE [Challenging: Success] — Not an Innocence. Not a king. Just Kim.

> **1.- But he’s *beautiful*. He can’t just be a man. He deserves to be worshipped.**
> 
> 2.- You’re right. I’m holding him to an impossible standard.

EMPATHY [Medium: Success] — But he doesn’t want that. He doesn’t like being put on a pedestal.

ESPRIT DE CORPS [Easy: Success] — Lieutenant Kitsuragi is waiting for his partner. For you.

KIM KITSURAGI — “Let’s go, Harry.”

YOU — You drift forward, pulled by the siren song of his voice saying your name. Before you can wonder *why* he might be holding his hand down to you, though, you take it, and are immediately hoisted up into the saddle behind Kim with a boost from Jean.

HALF LIGHT [Challenging: Failure] — oH GOD NO IT’S BREATHING WHAT THE FUCK

VOLITION [Easy: Success] — Of course it’s breathing, you idiot lizard; it’s a living creature.

KIM KITSURAGI — “Feeling alright back there, Lieutenant?”

> 1.- [Half Light - Trivial 6] Scream. 
> 
> 2.- [Half Light - Challenging 12] Melt off the horse and make a break for it. Time to go feral. 
> 
> 3.- [Half Light - Impossible 18] Take the reins from Kim and go riding off into the city. You’re the god of horses now.
> 
> **4.- “Doing fine.”**

JEAN VICQUEMARE — “You should see him right now. It’s like we’ve thrown him to the wolves.” He gives the horse a pat on the rump. “Easiest mare in this whole stable and he’s still about to shit himself. Good luck, Kitsuragi.”

KIM KITSURAGI — “I’m sure he’ll be fine.”

YOU — You are not going to be fine.

KIM KITSURAGI — “Ready, Harry?”

YOU — You make some kind of noise that Kim clearly takes as assent, as the horse starts *moving*, its muscles shifting in a way that kicks up your curiosity once you’ve gotten bored of being stiff in the saddle. You lean over to watch them moving and then realise how much more of the city you can see at once from this high up. Kim seems content to just let you hold onto him as you crane around to get the full effect of your new vantage point. 

FLÂNEUR [Trivial: Success] — Look, there are birds nesting in an old radio relay tower. Even the animals have to make do in this town.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY [Trivial: Success] — Forget the birds, there’s a painfully hot couple kissing up on that balcony. 

PERCEPTION (Sight) [Challenging: Failure] — They’re so high up that there’s no way to tell whether or not they’re actually hot.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY [Trivial: Success] — I don’t need to SEE to know they’re hot.

INLAND EMPIRE [Challenging: Success] — There’s something that you *can* see, though: on the balcony below them, a cigarette still burns.

PERCEPTION (Smell) [Formidable: Success] — The smell of it is frustratingly familiar, but all you can think of is the sea.

OUTSIDE CRIME SCENE — But then, there’s no more time to wonder why it might smell so familiar, as you’ve already arrived at the apartment block.

COMPOSURE [Challenging: Success] — And all without throwing up in fear. Congratulations.

KIM KITSURAGI — Kim clicks his tongue, presumably to tell the horse to stop, since it eases down from its casual trot until he can sling his leg over and hop down to the ground. He dusts himself off and grins up at you, offering his hand once more.

“Well? Feeling a bit braver now that you’ve ridden one again?”

YOU — You take his hand and fumble your way down the horse, crashing into Kim and barely keeping the both of you from tumbling to the ground. Only when you’ve regained your balance do you answer him.

“Fuck no.” 

You dust the hairs off of your ass before peeking over at the horse that is surveying the cul-de-sac with bored eyes. 

ESPRIT DE CORPS [Medium: Success] — She looks bored because she is. This horse is used to carrying officers into high-risk environments. That’s why they chose her for you: she is well-regarded for her ability to keep calm no matter how spooked she gets.

YOU — “But I guess she didn’t try to kill me or anything, so there’s that,” you mumble begrudgingly.

KIM KITSURAGI — The lieutenant gives you a pleased lift of his brows and opens his mouth to speak, but before he can, a childish voice calls out from in front of the Lyon Gate entrance to the catacombs, earning your attention.

ROWDY LITTLE BOY — “Hey, pigs! Yeah, you! C’mere!”

A dark-haired boy that looks to be about eleven or twelve hops up and down in the mouth of the street, waving his arms over his head. His clothes are mismatched and dirty, giving you the impression that he’s probably one of the feral children that scour Le Royaume for anything to sell off.

INLAND EMPIRE [Easy: Success] — One of your people.

KIM KITSURAGI — Kim exchanges a look with you before pushing his glasses up and hitching the horse to a lamppost. 

“Yes? Is there something wrong?”

ROWDY LITTLE BOY — “Yeah, there’s somethin’ wrong alright! And you’re s’posed t’help us, ain’t ya! Help and protect us!” He glares as if challenging Kim to deny your role.

KIM KITSURAGI — “Well, yes, but—” He glances over at the apartment where a dead body awaits investigation.

> 1.- Tell the kid to wait until after you finish the investigation.
> 
> 2.- Kim’s right. You can’t get distracted from your very important duties. “Hit the bricks, kid. We’re *lieutenants*. Go pester some patrol officer or something.”
> 
> **3.- Lean over into Kim’s line of sight and raise your brows pointedly. “A *kid*, Kim. A kid is asking for our help.”**

KIM KITSURAGI — He looks between you and the apartment again for just a second longer before letting out a sigh of acceptance and turning back to the child. “Yes, of course. Please tell us what’s happened.”

GAGGLE OF CHILDREN — As if Kim’s words opened a floodgate, a collection of children begin to emerge from the hiding spots around the cul-de-sac, all of them just as scruffy as the first, their eyes hungry and mean. The original boy waves over a tall mousy-blonde girl that looks to be about his age and she shuffles up, looking warily between you and Kim.

ROWDY LITTLE BOY — “Annie, you know Heather best of all. You tell ‘em what happened.”

ANNIE — The young girl looks dubious at his words, but nods anyway, clearing her throat and settling on Kim. 

AUTHORITY [Medium: Failure] — Hey. Why do they all look at him like he’s the one in charge? You’re just as much of a cop as he is.

HABITUS [Medium: Success] — Because even after a month without a drink, you still have the face of a drunk.

EMPATHY [Medium: Success] — You shouldn’t take it personally. They’re little kids who clearly live on the street. Life is hard for them and Kim has a natural air of authority. 

ANNIE — “Heather’s one of our youngest kids. She still has a mom but she’s with us a lot ‘cause she’s not old enough for school and her dad…” She hesitates, but after looking back at the other kids for a second, seems to get her bearings. 

“Her dad disappeared a while ago. But recently, she’s been cutting off from the rest of us to go—somewhere.” She worries at her lip and shoves her hands into her skirt pockets, brow heavy. “None of us really know where, ‘cause she won’t tell us. She just says she’s ‘going to see her dad’.”

She looks deeply concerned. “I tried telling her not to go alone, but she didn’t listen. So I tried following her one time, but she lost me and I—I know those tunnels better’n any of us. Sorry, Clyde.”

The original little boy shrugs when she looks back at him and she grins, flashing a missing tooth. 

“Anyway. We all went back into the tunnels last night like we always do, but Heather hasn’t come back out yet and it’s not like her to be gone this long.”

KIM KITSURAGI — Kim nods thoughtfully, watching as you wander over to the entrance of the tunnels, careful not to move too quickly so you don’t spook any of the children. You hear Kim come up behind you after a moment. 

“How long has she been gone?”

CLYDE — “‘Bout three hours longer’n she’s usually gone. ‘S’only reason why we’re askin’ a couple pigs to help out, y’know? You guys got those radios or whatever.”

KIM KITSURAGI — “Mm. Yes, of course.”

YOU — You stare beyond the gate into the mouth of the catacombs, a shiver of recognition crawling up your spine.

SHIVERS [Challenging: Success] — The city’s history rests inside those tunnels. Hundreds of years of life and death and life again, all contained within stone and iron and wood. 

You are a part of this cycle; born in a war hospital built underground not only to protect from the shelling but make it easier to bury those that died there.

One day, you will be buried here, too, welcomed home and then...

KIM KITSURAGI — “What do you think, Lieutenant?” Kim’s voice is quiet; private. The children are too far away to hear it.

YOU — You speak straight from the chill settling in your bones. “We should go in. We have our flashlights. The body will keep.”

KIM KITSURAGI — “Are you sure we shouldn’t call in someone who is a bit more familiar with the catacombs?”

When you just give him a significant look, he entreats the sky. “Right. How silly of me to forget your ex-title as ‘Leader of the Thirteenth Indotribe.’

YOU — You do your best to placate him with a smile. “We’ll be fine. It won’t take long. I promise.”

KIM KITSURAGI — Kim sighs, narrowing his eyes as he peers into the darkness beyond the gate. “Fine. But let it be known that I thought this was a bad idea.”

> 1.- “Duly noted, lieutenant. Now, *allons-y.*”
> 
> **2.- “You made me ride a horse; you can deal with a couple spiderwebs.”**
> 
> 3.- “Yeah, you’re right. The kids can fend for themselves. Back to the body that isn’t going to get up and walk away.”

KIM KITSURAGI — “It is not the *spiderwebs* that concern me.” He tuts and flips the gate latch, pushing it open with a wailing creak. 

PERCEPTION (Smell) [Trivial: Success] — The curls of ice-cold air smell stagnant and ancient.

PERCEPTION (Sight) [Trivial: Success] — The darkness inside the tombs is infinite; all-encompassing.

LYON GATE ENTRANCE — At least until Kim squeezes the handle of his flashlight and illuminates the path, stepping inside after only a moment. You follow behind, unclipping your own, smaller flashlight and giving it a couple of pumps to charge the dynamo before the light flickers to life. Kim defers to your direction soon enough, allowing you to take point as you follow the tunnels deeper in, guided by some instinct you can’t put a name to.

After what feels like hours of walking silently, though, your attention starts to flag.

RESILIENCE [Challenging: Failure] — You’re *bored*.

LE ROYAUME — There hasn’t been anything spookier than a clump of rats or more exciting than when you walked through a spiderweb and thought it was a ghost.

Death is surprisingly boring.

> 1.- Try to get Kim to talk to you even though you’re investigating.
> 
> 2.- Sing a song that you heard on the radio but don’t know the lyrics to.
> 
> **3.- Call out to the void. Let it talk back at you. [Listen to your own echo.]**

YOU — “Hello!” you call out, frowning when nothing comes back. You cup your hands over your mouth and try again. “*Hello*!”

KIM KITSURAGI — “I don’t know that she can hear you so far in, Detective.” Kim’s voice is distracted.

YOU — You look back at him with a huff. “I’m not trying to call out to the kid.” 

KIM KITSURAGI — “My mistake, then,” he says boredly, though his eyes dart around the catacombs quickly.

REACTION SPEED [Medium: Success] — There’s something up with him.

COMPOSURE [Medium: Success] — He doesn’t usually keep such a close eye on his surroundings.

> 1.- He’s probably just trying to focus. [Leave him be.]
> 
> **2.- Ask him what’s wrong.**

YOU — “Everything alright, Kim?”

KIM KITSURAGI — He looks a bit startled at your question before his face eases into a soft smile. “Yes, Lieutenant. I’m perfectly fine.”

DRAMA [Formidable: Success] — No, he isn’t.

EMPATHY [Heroic: Failure] — You search for any sign of what might be wrong, but draw a blank. When Kim doesn’t want to be read, he simply won’t be read.

YOU — Your only choice, then, is to continue through the catacombs, though you do keep one eye on Kim now. Just in case. 

> **1.- Make conversation.**
> 
> 2.- Focus on your task.

YOU — “Anyway, I—*ugh*, that web is in my beard and mouth now—” You spit and scrape at the web until you can’t feel it tickling you anymore. “Anyway. I wasn’t trying to call out to the kid. I was trying to hear my own echo. And I failed. Somehow.”

KIM KITSURAGI — Kim hums as you pout. “Well. We are underground.”

YOU — “So? Look at the ceilings.” You swing your light to point up to the ceiling and Kim grunts as it sweeps across his eyes. “Ack, sorry, sorry. Anyway, look. See how high up they are?”

KIM KITSURAGI — Kim follows the direction you’re pointing, his face shadowed from the dimly cast light. “Ah. They are quite high, aren’t they?” 

Just as you’re about to agree and demonstrate the lack of echo, Kim jumps in with his own, “Hallo!” that dies without calling back.

YOU — Both of you are silent for a moment before you click your tongue. “You disappoint me, catacombs.”

KIM KITSURAGI — Kim shoots you a wry grin. “I don’t think it’s the catacombs’ fault that they weren’t built for acoustics, Harry. Dead people aren’t well-known for being talkative.”

INLAND EMPIRE [Medium: Success] — That’s what he thinks.

KIM KITSURAGI — “But I do admit, it is a little strange just how still it feels in here.” 

PERCEPTION (Hearing) [Formidable: Success] — A hitch in his breath suggests a strong shiver.

LE ROYAUME — Before you can ask him again if he’s alright, a voice rings out from deeper inside.

LITTLE GIRL — “Hello-oo! Daddy? Daddy!” 

KIM KITSURAGI — Kim exchanges a sharp look with you. “Is that—?”

YOU — “That’s gotta be our little runaway. Let’s go!”

DEEP TUNNELS — You and Kim take off in a quick jog towards the direction of the voice, the bouncing lights disorienting you until you aren’t sure how far in you’ve gone.

KIM KITSURAGI — “Harry,” he huffs lightly, tugging at your coat in an attempt to slow you down. “Wait. I don’t recognise any of this. We’re going to get lost. We should go and get a map before continuing.”

HEATHER? — “Daddy! Da—ddyyy!”

YOU — “That’s from just around the corner, Kim!” You shrug Kim’s hand off, but snatch it out of the air before it can fall, pulling him along with you. “Don’t worry, we won’t get lost, I’ve got you—”

DEEP TUNNELS — But when you turn the corner, the only thing waiting for you are walls of intricately wrought iron caskets and what is clearly a ramshackle dwelling that’s been spread on the floor beneath them. A tattered bedroll is left unmade in the middle of the various bits of detritus, resting beside a makeshift hearth that seems to have been fashioned out of grating, the iron bent back to form a place for a pot to rest over a fire.

LOGIC [Medium: Success] — This is not a new home. Someone has lived here for a while.

KIM KITSURAGI — Kim bends over himself, catching his breath. “Our runaway seems to have outran us, unsurprisingly. Probably heard us coming and fled. Hopefully to the exit,” he mumbles, almost as an afterthought. 

EMPATHY [Easy: Success] — He’s trying to convince himself he doesn’t need to stay here any longer. He *really* doesn’t like it in these tunnels.

KIM KITSURAGI — “*Someone* has been here recently, though, it seems. Probably living down here.” He spotlights the bed and hearth and scattered trash before turning the light to the caskets. “Could it be the little girl’s father?”

YOU — You walk forward, picking your way around the mess to inspect the caskets closer. Something about them—whether because they are unusually decorated or just because they’re containers that probably contain something for you to find—rouses the detective in you. But when you try to lift the lid on the closest one, it doesn’t budge an inch.

KIM KITSURAGI — “Certain caskets of important people—royalty, mostly—were sealed using a specific device. To discourage looters.” There is amusement in Kim’s voice as he speaks, as though he finds it funny that you would have even made the attempt. 

HABITUS [Easy: Success] — Looters like *you*, is what he isn’t saying.

YOU — “I wasn’t going to *loot* it—”

INTERFACING [Medium: Success] — Yes, you were.

YOU — “—I was just looking at it ‘cause there’s something weird about it.” You lean closer to the casket lid. “C’mere. Need your good flashlight to see what these symbols are. Mine’s—” You splutter when the light pooling around you suddenly dims and you crook back to look at Kim. “Hey!”

KIM KITSURAGI — Kim isn’t looking at you, though, his face pinched with distress as he taps the flashlight against his hand. “I’m not doing it. It’s just—dying. For some reason.” His voice catches again as his hand slips in his desperate attempt to resuscitate the light, pumping the charger hard. “No, no, no, not now—*not now*—”

YOU — You watch with growing horror as the light from both of your flashlights dims further and further no matter how hard both of you try to charge the batteries. “Kim—Kim!” 

KIM KITSURAGI — “No, no, no, it was *charged*!” His voice is strange and urgent in a way that you barely recognise and it takes you a second to realise that it’s because you’ve only ever heard it once before.

When you were shot.

EMPATHY [Medium: Success] — He’s *terrified*.

HALF LIGHT [Challenging: Failure]— Oh, *fuck*, if Kim is afraid, then you’re definitely going to die!

REACTION SPEED [Easy: Success] — Get to him before the light goes out!

KIM KITSURAGI — Kim looks up at you, mouth agape with fear. “Harry—”

YOU — Not taking the time to question why, you leap forward over the nest and skid into Kim just as the last glimmer of light fades and you’re plunged into a darkness so deep that it feels tangible.

KIM KITSURAGI — Kim lets out a barely held back groan of alarm, his fingers digging into your arms hard enough to bruise as you hold onto each other. He gulps air even as you murmur comfort at him, his body shaking.

“Can’t—can’t, I can’t—Harry—”

YOU — “It’s okay, ‘s’okay,” you soothe, holding him closer to you with one arm while you reach out with the other, shuffling both of you step by step until your fingertips scrape against stone. “It’s okay, I got you, I’m here. I found a wall, okay? Found a wall. Kim. Talk to me, alright? Deep breaths. You’re gonna be okay. Just talk to me.”

KIM KITSURAGI — Kim doesn’t answer for a long time as you feel your way through the tunnels, his breath so ragged that you start to get worried about hyperventilation. Your voice seems to be keeping him from losing it entirely, though, so you continue to ramble until finally— 

“Talk—talk about what? What do you want me to say? I can’t—I don’t know what to—”

YOU — “Shh, don’t worry about it. Just say anything that comes to mind, alright? It’ll help, I promise.” You pull both of you along the path of the wall, stumbling over Kim with an aborted laugh. “Why d’you think I’m always talking?”

KIM KITSURAGI — The sound that Kim makes is somewhere between a scoff and a groan. “Are you suggesting that you’re in a constant state of terror?”

YOU — You make a noise of disbelief. “Oh, shit, is that what’s happening? Are you afraid right now? I couldn’t even tell.”

KIM KITSURAGI — “You’re not funny, Harrier,” he says while stepping on his own point with quiet, helpless laughter.

YOU — “Yeah, but I’m stupid enough to distract you from a panic attack, so that’ll do for me.” 

KIM KITSURAGI — “I’m not—” He stops, taking long, shaking breaths before speaking again. “I’m not having a panic attack. I just have a *slight* fear of the dark.”

YOU — “Is that what we’re calling ‘slight’ now?” Under your hand, the wall shifts into the corner that you remember taking as you ran earlier, and you follow it along to the main tunnel. 

KIM KITSURAGI — Kim clears his throat, and his words are much steadier than before. “*Very* slight.” He lets out another puff of a laugh in between the tremors wracking his body and protectiveness swells for him inside your heart, laced with pride that you’ve managed to bring him down from that peak of fear. Especially when you feel him reach out with his other hand and start to feel his way along the path as well.

YOU — It exhumes something nameless that you’ve tried your best to keep buried since that first night you spent with him on the balcony in Martinaise. But it brings with it a stirring in the base of your brainstem like a mouth yawning wide and you snap that thought away faster than it can form, scared of what it might mean for you.

KIM KITSURAGI — Kim’s weak sigh brings you back to yourself and the innate terror of being underground in the dark. “I don’t even have a good reason for it.”

YOU — You blink uselessly, blobs of colour swimming in your vision as they attempt to see shapes in the thick dark. “Good reason for what?”

KIM KITSURAGI — “Being afraid.”

YOU — “Do you need a good reason to be afraid? Fear is just a natural response to the unknown and there isn’t much that’s more unknown than being underground with no lights.” 

Kim is quiet for long enough that you start to worry again. You give him a little jostle through the side that is still pressed up against you, clutching his hand.

“Kim? Still with me?”

KIM KITSURAGI — “Khm. Yes. I was just—” He pauses again for a second. “That’s true enough. About fear, I mean. But for me, it is less of an ‘if’ and more of a ‘when’.”

EMPATHY [Challenging: Failure] — What does he mean by that? His voice gives away nothing but grim acceptance.

LOGIC [Medium: Success] — He is afraid of the dark, so it probably has to do with his eyesight.

KIM KITSURAGI — “I’ve known since I was a very small child that I might go blind one day.”

YOU — The suddenness of the confession startles you just as much as the words themselves. In the month and change you’ve known Kim, you’ve had to pry out every bit of information you could about his personal life. To have him freely offer this feels drastic. 

HALF LIGHT [Medium: Failure] — He clearly thinks you’re gonna die down here. This is last words kinda shit.

VOLITION [Medium: Success] — Don’t be so dramatic. You both have your hands on the wall and you *know* these tunnels. You’ll make it out, light or no light.

RESILIENCE [Challenging: Success] — Maybe he’s just tired of keeping you out of his inner life.

KIM KITSURAGI — He clearly takes your silence as discomfort, as he gives another weak laugh. “I’m making it sound too dramatic. Lots of people lose their sight as they get older.”

> 1.- [Encyclopedia - Formidable 13] “The approximate percentage of visual impairment in Revachol is around 3.5%, with full loss of sight around 0.04%, so at least you won’t be alone!”
> 
> 2.- [Half Light - Easy 8] “Oh my god, Kim, are we going to die down here? Is this your last confession?”
> 
> **3.- [Empathy - Challenging 12] “You’re not being dramatic. It *is* a big deal. The thought of losing an entire sense scares the shit out of me, and I’m not in danger of it. That I know of.”**
> 
> 4.- “Man. That sucks.”

**CHECK SUCCESS**

KIM KITSURAGI — “I suppose so. I’ve just known of the possibility for so long that I’ve long since accepted that it will happen.” He hums shakily. “That doesn’t mean I’m not afraid of it, though. That I don’t have nightmares about suddenly losing my sight.”

COMPOSURE [Heroic: Failure] — You hate the thought of Kim being afraid of anything, but especially something that you can’t *fix*. That impotence churns nastily inside of you, making you feel sick.

RHETORIC [Heroic: Failure] — What can you possibly say to this? You *have* to say something meaningful. Something comforting. Something that lets him know that you understand.

YOU — But the first thing that comes out of your mouth is just, 

“I’m afraid of horses.”

RHETORIC — Oh, good. That’s perfect. The perfect response to your partner opening his soul to you.

KIM KITSURAGI — But Kim’s surprised bark of true laughter nips your regret in the bud, making you grateful for the cover of darkness so he doesn’t see your enormous, goofy smile. 

“I think you may have mentioned that, yes.”

COMPOSURE [Medium: Success] — Take a second to come down from the Kim Laugh high first, buddy. He’ll hear it in your voice if you don’t.

YOU — You don’t care if he does. “Oh, alright. What about intimacy? Did I tell you how I’m terrified of intimacy, too?”

KIM KITSURAGI — “Ah, who isn’t,” he chuckles, shifting his hand so his fingers entwine with yours. 

ANIMA [Easy: Success] — Holding Kim’s hand feels like the most natural thing in the world. You can’t help but wonder what it would feel like to lift it to your lips and press a soft kiss there.

LE ROYAUME — Before you can even entertain that thought, though, a brilliant light suddenly thrums to life in the tunnel, thrown by the flashlight that Kim still holds tight in his other hand.

INTERFACING [Easy: Success] — He must have been charging the dynamo as you walked, the squeezing action comforting for him.

PERCEPTION (Sight) [Trivial: Success] — More importantly, there’s the archway that you pointed out near the entrance to the tunnels!

YOU — “Kim, look!” You point out the archway above you and he slumps with relief.

KIM KITSURAGI — “Oh, thank god.”

LE ROYAUME — With the light to guide you once again, it doesn’t take long for you to retrace your steps back to the entrance, and both of you burst from behind the ancient gate with a grateful gasp. You collapse into each other, giddy with relief.

LYON GATE ENTRANCE — Just as you catch your breath, you spot the gaggle of children waiting off to the side, watching you with obvious disbelief. When they spot you looking, the one you’ve started to think of as the leader steps forward.

CLYDE, LEADER OF THE LE ROYAUME SCOUNDRELS — “Hey, pig! Didn’tcha hear us callin’ for ya!? Why’d you go in there for so long when Heather came out right after you went in?” He glances between you and Kim before smirking. “You two havin’ sex or somethin’?”

YOU — You frown. “What are you talking about?”

CLYDE, LEADER OF THE LE ROYAUME SCOUNDRELS — “You know, stickin’ dicks in each other or whatever!”

You make a face and he cackles loud, voice going squeaky with pubescent delight. 

YOU — “The *girl*.” You inspect the group hiding behind him. “You said she came out before us?”

CLYDE, LEADER OF THE LE ROYAUME SCOUNDRELS — “Clean the dicks outta your ears, piggo!” The kid points over to where a very young girl stands under the circle of Annie’s arm, looking wide-eyed and nervous. “She didn’t come out *before* you! She came out at the same time you went in!”

YOU — You stare at the little girl, mind swirling with confusion and alarm. “But that’s…but you...”

HEATHER — The little girl’s lip quivers and your heart breaks. “Am I in trouble, sir?”

KIM KITSURAGI — “No. No, of course you aren’t.” Kim jumps in to reassure her, taking you by the elbow and giving it a tug. “We’re happy you’re alright, so please just stay with your friends from now on, mm?”

HEATHER — The girl bounces back from her fear with a bright, gap-toothed smile. “Yes, sir, I will. Thank you for coming to find me even though I didn’t need to be found!” 

KIM KITSURAGI — “You’re very welcome. Now, we have to be on our way. Isn’t that right, Lieutenant?”

YOU — Your gaze slides back to Kim and you nod absently, letting yourself get lead away from the heckling children and back towards your original target of the sleeping death victim. Before Kim can open the door to the apartment, though, you stop him with a hand to his arm.

“Kim, wait.”

KIM KITSURAGI — Kim sighs, but gives in immediately, as though he wanted to discuss it just as much as you but couldn’t bring himself to do it. 

“Yes, Harry. I know. I heard her in there, too.”

YOU — “She was definitely in there!” you exclaim, running a hand through your hair and wetting it down with the misting rain that started when you were inside the tunnels. You shake your head. “That was definitely her voice. And the lights going out! And that looter’s home...and the silence…”

You scowl, the pieces rattling around your brain like loose bolts.

PERCEPTION (Smell) [Trivial: Success] — There’s the smell of those cigarettes again. Why can you smell them here?

KIM KITSURAGI — “I know. Believe me, I’m just as curious about what happened in there.” His eyes fall to the flashlight clipped to his belt. “Especially since I know for certain that my light was charged before we entered.”

He turns back to you with an air of single-mindedness. “But we have a job we need to do. Everything else can wait.” 

YOU — You nod, chastised into focusing on the job you came out here for, but relax when Kim gives your arm a reassuring squeeze. 

KIM KITSURAGI — “We’ll come back. When we have a map and a plan and absolutely no chance of getting trapped underground in the dark again.” His smile is gentle and self-effacing and it devastates your heart in a way that feels warmly familiar.

YOU — Your own smile rises unbidden. “It’s a date.”

INLAND EMPIRE — But the thoughts that emerged from the darkness of the tunnels stay with you all day, hovering like bubbles you can’t quite reach. And even when you finally get to lay down to sleep after your first day back, you can’t escape them.

They feel inevitable.

KIM’S ROOM — All is dark. You are laying in the bed closest to the door, staring up at the dancing shadows that form in the newly familiar space. The window is closed. Still, cold air creeps inside curl by curl, tip-toeing across the room and under your bed. You can feel it take shape—grow eyes and ears and a mouth—the longer you stay awake. The longer you think. The longer you listen to Kim’s breath under the blanket of night.

ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN — The longer you listen to *me*. 

YOU — You grow still. 

Are you asleep?

ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN — Don’t have to be asleep to dream, baby boy. Just have to *get there*. And oh, how close you’ve been for so long now. But not quite in our grasp. 

All thanks to him.

LIMBIC SYSTEM — The bright one. The beautiful one. The one soft and hard. Just like her. 

> **1.- Go away. I don’t want to hear either of you tonight.**
> 
> 2.- What do you mean, just like her?
> 
> 3.- Kim isn’t like Dora. 

ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN — Don’t want to *hear* us? Oh, Harry, we aren’t like the others. We aren’t snapshot reel-to-reels spinning in your head, slapping against each other and making sweet disco. We’re *you*. 

Every night you roll the dice and tonight, baby, it’s snake eyes.

LIMBIC SYSTEM — Would you rather you *didn’t* hear us? Didn’t feel, didn’t think? There’s always good ways to get that done, you know.

ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN — And you wouldn’t even have to drink a single drop, Detective Sober.

LIMBIC SYSTEM — It would help, though. Take off the edge of those jangling nerves. Smooth the paving stones so you wouldn’t trip along the way. 

> **1.- What are you talking about?**

ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN — You want to shut us up, mate? There’s a perfectly good off-switch waiting in that bed over there. Dreaming about *you*.

LIMBIC SYSTEM — We used to dream like that. Oh-so-sweet dreams suckling honey from between her thighs and then waking up and doing it all over, only in *stereo*.

If you flicked his switch, he would sing the same for you. 

ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN — Think about the sugar of your name dripping from *that one’s* lips. He’s not like her. He won’t break even under the weight of the shit you carry.

LIMBIC SYSTEM — The mazut in your engine, the sun on your skin, the blood pumping hard through your broken heart. 

He’s the best high you’ve never had and you *need him*.

> 1.- No. Kim is my partner and my friend.
> 
> 2.- Is he really dreaming about me?
> 
> **3.- You guys are starting to creep me out.**

ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN — What a surprise. The mewling urchin is afraid to face up to his desires. 

> 1.- I don’t have any desires.
> 
> **2.- There’s a difference between having desires and whatever you guys are talking about.**
> 
> 3.- I can face up to anything you throw at me.

LIMBIC SYSTEM — Whatever you need to tell yourself, sweetheart. 

ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN — You think you’re king of the castle now, don’t you? Captain of your own ship. Alright, then; why don’t you explain to us *base instincts* how you don’t want to be buried so deep inside of him you don’t know where either of you begins and ends.

> **1.- It’s not about wanting to have sex with Kim.**
> 
> 2.- I’m done talking to you two.

ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN — Everything you’ve done in the last month has been about wanting to have sex with Kim.

LIMBIC SYSTEM — Every time you heave your rotting corpse out of bed when you’d rather sink under the soil and decompose, it’s because that’s what *he* wants. You’ve given up the only thing that ever took the pain away just because he smiled at you.

> **1.- It’s not healthy to live for someone else. That’s why Dora left, isn’t it?**
> 
> 2.- All you’re telling me is that my accomplishments have meant nothing.
> 
> 3.- I was stupid to try to stop drinking. I’m just being a burden on him.

ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN — Of course it’s not fucking *healthy*, but what are you supposed to do until you learn how to do anything other than drag yourself along on your belly? Lie down and let that void take you? 

I don’t think so, Harry. You’re not getting out of here that easy.

> **1.- I don’t want “out” anymore. I want to get better.**
> 
> 2.- Fuck you. No one tells me what to do; not even my own brain.

ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN — Then wake up, you quivering dipshit, and *look* at yourself.

LIMBIC SYSTEM — You can’t run forever, silly boy! Shy bairns get nowt.

Imagine what you could accomplish if you’d stop denying yourself the ecstasy of loving him.

> 1.- You’re right, I *should* stop holding myself back.
> 
> 2.- I’m not going to saddle Kim with my feelings for him.
> 
> **3.- I already told you, I don’t want to hear from either of you. I make my own decisions now.**

ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN — Good fucking luck with that, petit prince. See you next time you crawl back to oblivion with tears in your eyes and your dick between your legs.

LIMBIC SYSTEM — Oh, Harry. Such wasted potential. What use is being alive if you aren’t going to live?

Try not to shit the bed as bad as you did last time, at least.

VOLITION — *Wake up*, Harry!

YOU — You snap awake, trembling under your bunched-up covers.

> **1.- What happened? What was that?**

VOLITION — You have been circling—chasing your own tail—all night. You fell to that deep place. The events of the day were too much for you to process with just our voices. The thought of Kim’s hand reaching for yours, his soft, deep voice in the darkness, his trust in you, the pitch black of the tombs…

You are circling.

You need to sleep. 

ENDURANCE — If you want him to sleep, then you need to tell him to stop thinking first.

INLAND EMPIRE — You can’t stop thinking. Because of that little girl. Because of Kim. Because there was something in that crypt. Something about that sleeping death victim. Something about the smoke outside. Something deep and familiar and more than a little terrifying. 

VOLITION — And the circle continues. Don’t say I didn’t try.

LOGIC — The little girl told her friends she was going to see her dad, but he disappeared a long time ago. That would suggest that he died and was entombed. She was likely confused and trying to find him.

ENCYCLOPEDIA — Auditory and visual hallucinations can be a common occurrence for those in bereavement.

INLAND EMPIRE — A little girl having hallucinations when she doesn’t know her father is dead? Clear enough that she would venture through Le Royaume without her friends?

LOGIC — It does seem odd, with that evidence laid out. But how else would she have ‘found’ him? She would have had to stumble on top of him to find any living person in that crypt. There are no acoustics. You couldn’t even hear the children calling for you. There’s no way she’d hear her father calling out to her unless it was a hallucination.

VISUAL CALCULUS — Why *was* it so quiet in there? The catacombs are cladded with limestone taken directly from the cliffs and carved into endless snakeholes. There should not be any muffling effect on those stones. Quite the opposite, in fact.

INLAND EMPIRE — You don’t remember any muffling before.

SHIVERS — The limestone of the cliffs is not one for silence. It is a crashing stone, made to weather the roaring power of waves. It echoes each beat, magnifies it. Call-and-repeat, ad infinitum, until it crumbles into silt and reflects the sun from the ocean floor.

REACTION SPEED — More importantly, why did you hear her calling for her father in there if she was outside the whole time?

INLAND EMPIRE — Something is wrong. *Very* wrong.

FLÂNEUR — Go. You know the path to the tombs still, the web of the Thirteenth Indotribe tattooed on your soles. You could lose every part of you and still you would be able to find your way there; through the tunnels. You would always hear your fallen brothers’ and sisters’ giggles surrounding you, a thread pulling taut through the maze.

ESPRIT DE CORPS — But...Kim. He said you would go together later. He won’t like you going alone. Cops who investigate alone die alone.

EMPATHY — There’s no way he actually wants to go back with you. He had a panic attack in there.

ESPRIT DE CORPS — Then call Jean and ask *him* to go with you. Don’t go alone.

RESILIENCE — You want even less to bother Jean with this. You were only given this chance by sheer grace. You are supposed to be proving that you can handle yourself. That you won’t ruin other people’s lives with your selfishness.

ESPRIT DE CORPS — This is a bad idea.

FLÂNEUR — It is the only idea you have. Time to follow your instincts and see what has changed when you stopped being the king of the catacombs.

YOU — With a quick look over at Kim’s curled form on his bed, you shuffle out of the room as quiet as you can, throwing on your trousers and shoes and anorak. You don’t bother leaving a note; it will take a little while to get to the catacombs, but it isn’t so late in the night that Kim will be likely to wake up. The journey there is bitingly cold despite the time of year, the combination of unheated light rail seats and frozen pavements a tag-team hit to your comfort. 

The anorak does its job, though, and even as you wander through the tunnels with its deathly silence crushing your ears, you feel warm. Like Revachol herself has her hand at your back, guiding you forward until you reach the same spot you and Kim found earlier. 

YOU — You get your lighter in hand, just in case your flashlight dies again.

PERCEPTION (Sight) — Everything is exactly as you left it. The bedroll and trash haven’t been disturbed and the caskets are still half-plundered, bolts left hanging out of their sockets.

INLAND EMPIRE — The static is here, too, unsteadying and unnatural. You can *feel* it on your skin, like tiny fingers and tongues. 

Tasting you.

PERCEPTION (Hearing) — Without Kim’s voice to distract you, the ghosts are there again, the same as in the archives. Whispery and far away. Or maybe just in your head. You can almost pick out individual sentences, like radio chatter from another room.

YOU — A cold wind blows over you and you roll with a sickening shiver, falling forward onto one of the caskets. 

SHIVERS — FROM THE OTHER SIDE. THEY ARE ON THE OTHER SIDE.

ENDURANCE — You curl up on yourself, gasping for air in the mouldering dark. 

PERCEPTION (Taste) — It tastes like death, but deeper. More.

INLAND EMPIRE — Unmaking.

VOLITION — This is familiar. This feeling of unsteadiness, like walking on earth that shifts underfoot. You’ve done this before.

INLAND EMPIRE — Many times before, but also very recently. 

PERCEPTION (Smell) — The sea washes in from a crack somewhere above, salt air cleansing your lungs. 

INLAND EMPIRE — Martinaise.

VOLITION — *Fuck*. This—all of those pockets of silence—all of the crackling and the weirdness— 

LOGIC — Swallow.

INLAND EMPIRE — No. Not Swallow. Swallows. 

VOLITION — All through Le Royaume…

INLAND EMPIRE — But especially here. Right here, eating up the history in these caskets. 

HALF LIGHT — Down in the archives!

VOLITION — Innocence alive, no *wonder* we couldn’t keep your morale up.

RESILIENCE — You should leave this place right now. No one should be here alone, but *especially* not you.

REACTION SPEED — Wait! Wait, look down first!

PERCEPTION (Touch) — There is something pressing into you, square and hard enough to hurt.

YOU — You lean back with some difficulty, shivers wracking your body now. But as soon as you do, you spot something that gets you laughing.

A square-shaped bullet loaded into a heavy-duty gun.

LOGIC — Or, more likely, the casket bolt used to seal up royal tombs and the high-pressure tool required to insert it that Kim mentioned.

INTERFACING — It wouldn’t take much to wriggle this one free. 

INLAND EMPIRE — You should take it with you. 

ESPRIT DE CORPS — Call the others in for a meeting. Just in case it actually is important.

VOLITION — No matter if this bolt is important, they need to know about the Swallows.

YOU — And so you do, working the bolt loose bit by bit until it’s free. You pop it into your coat pocket and look around you one last time, taking note of the nest of what may well be your sequence killer. 

You suddenly understand with an intense clarity why, exactly, Kim always carries a notebook around with him. 

You don’t have time to go back for one, though, so you just do your best and jog out of the catacombs as fast as you can, catching on webs and loose pine caskets as you go. You burst out of the gate less than gracefully, slipping on a late-blooming patch of ice before catching yourself, your heart galloping. 

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT — Thankfully, the rest of the run back to the precinct is long enough that you can just let your body take over, ancient muscle memory kicking in. Your thighs ache and burn and your breath is laboured, but you know, somehow, that you can handle this. You’ve run much longer on much less energy. Police work may be your job, but *this* is what you were actually made for.

OUTSIDE PRECINCT 41 — Still, you’re almost surprised at how fast the journey goes this time, as though you’ve slipped into a trance until the quiet chuffing of horses and swearing of mechanics alerts you to your approach to the yard of Precinct 41.

You slip inside the building with barely a wave for the tired women working the reception desk, scuttling through the hallways until you slam through the doors to Wing C, skidding to a stop in front of the nighttime radio operator.

You aren’t sure exactly how you request the call-in, but the urgency you feel must get through to the man, as he immediately transfers his call and connects to the police line. You mumble a thanks and head to the office, ignoring the other officers hard at work around you. 

LIEUTENANTS’ OFFICE — The second you step through the door, a wave of relief hits you, even if you know this is just the beginning of whatever is happening. The silk mill is like home—a port in the Jamrock storm—and this office is your sanctuary. There are *memories* here. Actual pieces of you that still reside here, even if you can’t access them yet.

Between these walls, surrounded by the evidence of your fellow lieutenants’ combined professionalism, you feel like you can do anything.

As though to prove this point to yourself and everyone else, you settle into your chair with the file on the square bullet hole murders and study every bit you can find. At least until your feet begin to itch with anxiety and you decide to check the actual evidence locked away in the archives. 

Sure enough, the “bullets” extracted from the victims appear to be a corroded version of the bolt, even if each one is different enough to have thrown you off before. Bolstered by this, you return upstairs, letting out a long breath as you escape the reach of what is very possibly a Swallow living beneath your precinct.

And when you arrive back in the office, the lieutenants are waiting for you.

KIM KITSURAGI — Kim stands at the back of the room, near the window. His hands are clasped behind him, but you can see his fingers vice-gripping his wrist. His jacket is draped over the back of his chair even though his bare arms are dotted with goosebumps.

JEAN VICQUEMARE — Jean sits with his elbow on his knee, bent over himself as he turns away from you, looking down at the rolled back case file clipped to his ledger. His tie is slung up over his shoulder, kept out of the way of his intense study.

JUDIT MINOT — Judit has stopped mid-rifle with her fingers still slotting into different folders in the filing cabinet, head cocked and forehead crinkled. Her tongue pokes out from between her lips. She is still wearing the same clothes she wore the day before, though they’ve been freshly pressed.

KIM KITSURAGI — “Lieutenant Du Bois. Your message sounded urgent. Is there something wrong?”

His voice is short and to the point, his eyes flicking across your face.

EMPATHY [Easy: Success] — He is worried about you. You’re acting strange.

ESPRIT DE CORPS [Challenging: Success] — He woke up and you weren’t there. When the radio called out to him, he feared the worst.

JEAN VICQUEMARE — “*Yes*, shitkid, why don’t you tell us why we’re here at two in the fucking morning when we could be sleeping.” Jean’s voice is perfectly crafted into boredom.

JUDIT MINOT — “We *weren’t* sleeping, JV.” She makes a disgusted sound through her nose and closes the filing cabinet decisively. It still doesn’t quite bang. She looks even more disgusted about that. “We were up dealing with more sleeping death bullshit.”

ANIMA [Medium: Success] — There’s something very weird about hearing Judit swear.

> **1.- “Wait. JV. Is *that* your nickname, Jean?”**
> 
> 2.- “Another one already?”
> 
> 3.- “Up all night together, huh? You wild dog, Jean.”

JEAN VICQUEMARE — “Not for you, Dick Mullen.” He finally looks up at you, his eyes snapping with warning.

SUGGESTION [Easy: Success] — Nothing good will come of you pushing your luck with him again, but he is practically egging you into it with that look.

> **1.- “Why won’t you just tell me your nickname?”**
> 
> 2.- Let it go.

JEAN VICQUEMARE — “Because nicknames are only for people who—”

KIM KITSURAGI — “*Lieutenant*. The purpose of this meeting.”

Both you and Jean turn to Kim guiltily. Kim’s expression gives nothing away, but his spine is rigid. 

EMPATHY [Medium: Success] — He is frustrated. His patience is wearing thin.

> **1.- “Sorry, Kim.”**
> 
> 2.- “Jean started it.”

JEAN VICQUEMARE — “Khm. Yes. Apologies, Lieutenant Kitsuragi.” 

DRAMA [Trivial: Success] — He means it. 

ESPRIT DE CORPS [Medium: Success] — Of course he does. He *respects* Kim.

SUGGESTION [Easy: Success] — And if you ever want him to respect you like that again, you shouldn’t make a big deal out of him apologising.

> 1.- Fuck that. Jean should be the one begging for *my* respect. [Call him out.]
> 
> **2.- Clear your throat and explain why you called them in.**

YOU — The sound of your throat clearing gets everyone’s attention on you again and you take a quick breath, fiddling with the heavy signet bolt in your pocket. 

“Do you want the good news or bad news first?”

KIM KITSURAGI — Kim’s eyebrows quirk up and he studies you. You don’t know what he finds there.

“Bad news.”

JEAN VICQUEMARE — Jean leans back in his chair, head falling back to look up at the slanted ceiling. His Adam's apple bobs as he speaks. “Fuck, with the gossip on the streets, I don’t think I can—”

He stops suddenly, swallowing.

“Good news.”

YOU — You look over to Judit, who glances between Jean and Kim before grimacing apologetically at the latter. “Good news. Sorry.”

KIM KITSURAGI — Kim’s lip twitches at the corner, his expression softening. 

“No need to apologise.” His voice has a hint of fondness in it that makes your throat stick to itself for a moment.

YOU — You swallow past the lump and look away from Kim, pulling out the bolt and running your thumb along the grooves of the signet.

“Two to one. Good news it is.”

The three lieutenants crowd in close as you lean forward and place the signet in front of Jean, the *clink* of heavy metal ringing out in the silence. You lean back again, waiting patiently as they all inspect it closely.

KIM KITSURAGI — Kim peers at you over his glasses after a few moments. “Detective, is there going to be an explanation that comes along with this trinket or are we to play a guessing game as well?”

JEAN VICQUEMARE — You are surprised to see Jean look over at Judit.

“Jude?”

JUDIT MINOT — Judit grunts and bends closer, scraping her hair back with a hand. When it falls forward again, she huffs with frustration.

ANIMA [Medium: Success] — You have a spare tie. 

> **1.- Give it to her.**
> 
> 2.- Ask if she wants it first.

YOU — Without asking, you thrust your spare hair tie under her nose and watch as she grabs it and ties her hair back absently.

JUDIT MINOT — She is instantly, completely focused on the signet, as though her mind has cleared. She reaches for it, but hesitates.

“Do you mind if I…?”

YOU — You gesture vaguely, not wanting to interrupt whatever train of thought she’s hopped on, and are rewarded with a shy smile.

JUDIT MINOT — Judit holds the signet up to the light, rubbing her thumb along the same paths that yours did only moments ago. She squints as she brings it back down to chest level, and you watch in surprise as she suddenly pops it between her teeth and bites down.

JEAN VICQUEMARE — Jean makes a quiet, offended noise, but his eyes are dancing with a humour that you haven’t seen since you forgot your old life. “Ugh, Jude, there’s other ways to check.”

KIM KITSURAGI — “Check?” The lieutenant asks as Judit spits the signet back into her hand, looking perplexed but satisfied. “Check what?”

JUDIT MINOT — Judit twirls the signet between her thumb and middle finger and flicks it over to Kim, who catches it with only a tiny amount of startled fumbling. Her grin is just this side of vicious, more teeth than anything, as she watches him adjust his glasses and study it.

KIM KITSURAGI — Kim hums thoughtfully. “Gold? You’re checking if it’s real?”

JUDIT MINOT — She nods. “Real. And how thick it is before I hit iron beneath.” 

KIM KITSURAGI — Kim passes the signet over to Jean when he holds his hand out to him. “And?”

JUDIT MINOT — “Thin veneer of gold overtop a thick heart of iron.”

JEAN VICQUEMARE — “Short-reigning king?”

JUDIT MINOT — “More likely a duke related to a king.” She scratches at a scab on her cheek. It’s a long, thin line—a cat scratch. “By the heron on the design...probably Duke Feraut.” 

REACTION SPEED [Challenging: Success] — Feraut. Like the second-most recent victim.

> **1.- Say it out loud.**
> 
> 2.- Keep it to yourself.

YOU — “Feraut is also the name of one of the victims of the square bullet hole murders.”

JUDIT MINOT — She looks over at you curiously. “You’re—that’s right.” Her brows grow heavy with sudden understanding.

“Harry, where did you find this?”

> **1.- “Wait, how did you know all that stuff?”**
> 
> 2.- “In Le Royaume. Holding the duke’s casket closed.”

JUDIT MINOT — “Art major,” she says almost apologetically. “Minor in history.” When she sees the look you’re giving her, she quickly adds, “I didn’t graduate or anything, so don’t get too excited.”

> **1.- Hold your hands up. “Not excited. Just impressed. As far as I know, not many people bother to study history when it all disappears anyway.”**

JUDIT MINOT — “Khm. That’s true enough. Now—where you found it?”

> **1.- “In Le Royaume. Holding the duke’s casket closed.”**

YOU — You are suddenly the focus of the room.

JUDIT MINOT — Judit is the first to regain her composure, though she still licks her lips nervously before speaking. “The—the *royal tunnels*? You found them?”

JEAN VICQUEMARE — “Bullshit. No one’s seen those things in decades.”

He is glaring, but his eyes are keen.

EMPATHY [Challenging: Success] — He wants to believe you, but you have cried wolf too many times in your partnership. 

SUGGESTION [Medium: Success] — Be thorough in your explanation and he won’t be able to deny you.

KIM KITSURAGI — Before you can so much as open your mouth to prove Jean wrong, though, Kim is speaking quietly. “You went back?”

Jean and Judit both look over at him.

JEAN VICQUEMARE — “*Back*?”

JUDIT MINOT — “Kim, you were there? You’ve seen the royal tunnels?”

KIM KITSURAGI — Kim still has his attention on you when he answers, and something twists hard in your stomach. “We went inside the catacombs together before investigating the sleeper. I was under the impression that we would return together, as well, once we were better prepared.”

ESPRIT DE CORPS [Trivial: Success] — I told you he wouldn’t like it.

EMPATHY [Easy: Success] — That’s probably putting it mildly. He doesn’t look happy with you at all.

AUTHORITY [Medium: Success]— Tell him what you found and he’ll see that it was the best call.

HABITUS [Easy: Success] — Don’t bring up why you went alone, though. That’s private.

> 1.- “I just couldn’t sleep. It isn’t a big deal. I figured out the square bullet case, didn’t I?”
> 
> 2.- “I thought I would be saving you from going back to that place, since you were so afraid of it.”
> 
> **3.- “I had to go. Something called me there and it was right to. Even if this *is* our sequence killer, it’s nothing compared to what else I found.”**

JEAN VICQUEMARE — There is complete silence in the office, heavy with tension, until Jean spits out, “Fuck *sake* Harry, you stupid bastard.”

When you gape at him, he tosses his ledger down in outrage. 

“Did you even *think* before going into a serial killer’s hideout by yourself?”

JUDIT MINOT — “He’s right, Harry.” Judit shakes her head and the disappointment in her voice makes you feel like shit. She’s always stuck up for you against Jean, so you know you’ve really messed up. 

“You could have died. What if they’d been there? They’ll know those tunnels like the back of their hand by now.”

YOU — “But that’s why I went alone,” you argue without thinking. “I remember everything about those catacombs from when I was a kid, and I didn’t want Kim to have to—”

You barely have the forethought to shut up before blurting out Kim’s secret.

KIM KITSURAGI — The look he gives you is more complicated than disappointment, and you don’t get a chance to see what else lies beneath before he drops his head, taking his glasses off to wipe them down slowly. When he speaks, it’s just as guarded. 

“Something called you there.”

YOU — You bite back a wince. It doesn’t sound great, hearing it said back at you. 

“I know what it sounds like, but yeah.”

KIM KITSURAGI — Kim is silent for several moments more as he finishes cleaning his glasses and puts them back on. He inhales slowly before drawing himself to his full height. 

“Tell me what you found, then.”

YOU — You do your best to silently plead for mercy, but Kim stands rigid, and you give in eventually, slumping a bit. When you finally say, “Swallows. All through Le Royaume—and the archives,” it is met with even deeper silence.

VOLITION [Challenging: Failure] — How ironic.

EMPATHY [Easy: Success]— At least you can finally read Kim’s expression, even if the last thing you want to see is this *cousin to horror* that flits across it.

RESILIENCE — Dread?

HALF LIGHT — Terror.

COMPOSURE — Resignation. 

INLAND EMPIRE — Knowing.

JEAN VICQUEMARE — Conversely, neither Jean nor Judit give any reaction other than confusion. 

“Birds? Inside of the catacombs.” Jean combs through his shaggy hair, holding his hand out towards you as if begging you to start making sense. “You’re telling me you left your partner behind because *something* told you to go find *birds* inside of a killer’s hideout.”

JUDIT MINOT — “Harry, I—I don’t know what to—”

KIM KITSURAGI — “Not birds.”

Kim’s voice is faint, though you can almost see the process of his composure building around him once more. Like little bricks stacking into a wall behind his back.

“Khm. How many? You’re sure it’s not just—”

YOU — “Very sure,” you cut in. Your smile feels closer to a grimace. “It was why we couldn’t hear the kids. Probably why the light went out. And the one down in the archive is why I—you know.” It’s your turn to glance over at Jean, who scowls.

JEAN VICQUEMARE — “Are either of you planning on making any goddamn sense anytime soon or should Jude and I open a case for this conversation, too?”

KIM KITSURAGI — You exchange a significant look with Kim and he sighs. “Perhaps it would be faster for you to just show them.” 

JUDIT MINOT — “Show us...what?” A flash of frustration crosses over her and she folds her hands behind her back. “We’re not going anywhere until you explain yourselves.”

KIM KITSURAGI — You watch Kim closely as he fights a visible battle with himself before nodding over to you as if to say,

You have the floor, Lieutenant.

YOU — After swallowing around the pocket of air trapped in your throat, you set yourself to explaining what you and Kim discovered in that church in Martinaise. 

The 2mm hole in the world, nicknamed the Swallow. 

The origin of the Pale. 

How you and Kim had stood inside that spot and shivered with the weight of it, had panicked alongside everyone else as the roaring silence shook the rafters, had gloried in the repurposing of destruction for something that felt like pure life. 

Under the glowing lungs of Dolores Dei, you and Kim had touched eternity.

And now you’d seen that it had lived underneath your feet for who knows how long.

After you finish, you lick your dry lips and take a moment to let it sink in for them, but Jean only waits a second before responding.

JEAN VICQUEMARE — “Bullshit.”

YOU — You stare, any response you might have prepared fleeing your head with just one word.

JEAN VICQUEMARE — Jean stares right back, brow furrowed, before saying it again. “Bullshit.”

He barks out a disgusted laugh and shakes his head. “Can’t believe I almost fell for another of your ‘apocalypse cop’ stories.”

JUDIT MINOT — “Jean, I—I don’t know that this is Tequila Sunset speaking.” She takes a step back, sitting down hard when her knees bump against the coffee table they have in the corner. The table clatters in complaint, but holds fast beneath her. “There’s not enough…”

KIM KITSURAGI — “Alcohol and fire?”

JUDIT MINOT — She just nods, looking more than a little sick.

KIM KITSURAGI — “Believe me, I tried to convince myself the same. But I was there and you can trust that *I* do not suffer from visions of apocalypse.”

YOU — “Hey.”

KIM KITSURAGI — Kim doesn’t even bother to acknowledge your complaint. He is watching Jean, waiting for his reaction.

JEAN VICQUEMARE — Finally, after several conflicting emotions jockey for control, Jean’s jaw sets with grim determination. “You said it’s easier to show us?”

KIM KITSURAGI — Kim sighs again; a tiny exhalation that seems to barely pass his lips. “It is.”

JEAN VICQUEMARE — Jean nods, standing up. “Then show us.”

JUDIT MINOT — “Ah—” Judit holds up a hand at Jean’s words. “I am—fine. For the moment. I’ve been down in the archives plenty and I—I believe you, Harry. I believe you.”

YOU — You wouldn’t have expected that hearing those words would give you such a lift in your spirits, but it absolutely does. It keeps your chin held high as you leave Kim with Judit and take Jean down into the archives, feeling out the exact spot where the silence is so oppressive that you can stand face-to-face with Jean and barely hear a word he says.

JEAN VICQUEMARE — “What the fuck,” is all he can say as soon as you step back out of the spot. At first he was simply confused—then troubled—and now visibly shaken, scanning the air around you as if he might be able to see the shelves start peeling out of existence.

“What the fuck. What the fuck.”

YOU — It takes every inch of your willpower not to say I-told-you-so.

JEAN VICQUEMARE — “You’ve known about this for—what? A *month* and you didn’t tell us?”

YOU — “I’ve known about the one in Martinaise for a month. I don’t even *know* this one for sure.” You run your hand through your hair, accidentally knocking the tie out. You put it away absently, checking the ceiling for any sign of Swallow even though you know you won’t see it. “Would have to get Soona to come down and measure it.”

JEAN VICQUEMARE — “Who the fuck is Soona?”

He is agitated, scruffing his beard with the palm of his hand.

YOU — “Soona Luukanen-Kilde.”

JEAN VICQUEMARE —He glares at you. “Is that supposed to tell me—no. You know what? I don’t care. I don’t *care*,” he points at you with a stabbing motion, “because there is *Pale* growing in our fucking archives and now I have to go tell Pryce and Berdyayeva about it and that was the last fucking thing I wanted to do today, Harry!” 

REACTION SPEED [Trivial: Success] — Hey, hey, whoah! He’s turning to go tell them! 

VOLITION [Easy: Success] — You should probably not let him do that.

> **1.- What? Why not? Shouldn’t they know?**

ESPRIT DE CORPS [Medium: Success] — Captain Ptolemy Pryce sits behind his desk, head in his hands, and stares down at the undercover reports from Special Consultant Trant Heidelstam. Things are moving quickly. Maybe too quickly. It’s impossible to tell at this juncture. They’ve set the plan in motion and all they can do now is hope to god it doesn’t fail.

SHIVERS [Challenging: Success] — The city hangs on a thread balance. One little push in either direction could send it tumbling down into any number of new realities. Some worse, some with hope.

VOLITION — Or, in human words: if Pryce finds out about this, it might split his attention at a crucial juncture.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT [Easy: Success] — Kick those quads into gear, buster! Your target is about to escape through the lift!

YOU — You blink back to the archives to see that Jean is, in fact, about to shut the door of the lift on you. You barely manage to sprint over to it and slide past the gate before he slams it shut.

JEAN VICQUEMARE — “What—”

YOU — You whirl on him. “You were gonna trap me down there!”

JEAN VICQUEMARE — He scoffs. “Trap you? By taking the lift instead of the stairs? You fucking dink.”

HALF LIGHT [Medium: Failure] — There are *stairs* and we’ve been taking this death trap the whole time?

JEAN VICQUEMARE — “Anyway, you would have deserved to get trapped down there. This was *your* fucking responsibility, Harry!” He sneers and turns fully to focus on the crank. “But what a surprise that I’m having to clean up after you again.”

YOU — You reach out to him. “You don’t have to clean up—”

JEAN VICQUEMARE — “No, I don’t want to hear it—” The moment that your hand brushes him, he jerks away from you, eyes fierce. “Don’t even fucking try, Harry!”

YOU — You freeze, breath caught painfully in your throat as your hand drops back to your side. You can feel your mouth try to work more words out, but nothing comes. 

JEAN VICQUEMARE — “You don’t touch me. You don’t give me that look like I’m the one who ruined your life. You don’t get to ask for forgiveness. You don’t get *any more chances*!” he shouts, dangerous as a spitting snake, a low-lying panther, a— 

INLAND EMPIRE [Formidable: Success] — A charging mustang. 

CONCEPTUALIZATION — Mustang...oh yes, that’s the one. You can picture it now. The way that Jean’s eyes flash when he gets angry— 

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT — The power coiled just beneath the surface— 

EMPATHY — His loyalty— 

JEAN VICQUEMARE — Jean is panting, his breath moving the stale air in the lift that trembles with the tension between you. You don’t know what he sees in your face, but it gets him surging forward into your space, his voice barely above a growl. “You think you can come back after everything you did and just say you’re a new man? You think you’re fooling anyone with this shit, Harry? You think you’re fooling *me*?”

He laughs bitterly.

INLAND EMPIRE [Formidable: Success] — But you barely hear it, because the smell you couldn’t quite catch the day before is there in force now, squirming into the keyholes of the locked doors in your head. 

And someone is waiting behind them.

CONDUIT TO ANOTHER YOU — Like dredging up an ancient treasure chest from beneath your Letheian blackouts, a memory emerges. 

This scent is Jean. This scent is…

His back to yours as you wait out a drug runner and as you dance in a club. The clap of his hand as he congratulates you on a job well done and when you’ve drunk yourself into a coma on his couch. The warmth of his body as he holds you and when you hold him, both of you bone-tired, breath-tired, soul-tired in a way that isn’t curable. Maybe it isn’t survivable. But you’re both holding on because the other still needs it. You’re holding on.

This scent is called…

Mustang. 

It was a joke, at first. 

Jean always loved the horses. Insisted that they did twice the job of any motorcarriage for less than a third of the price. He took to them in a way that you never could. You’d been skittish of horses ever since one kicked at you as a kid and nearly broke your ribs. It was your fault, of course, but that doesn’t matter to fear. What matters is that it happened.

But you still rode them. For him. Because his rough edges never softened more than when he was singing to that horse of his, brushing him down every night as you fell into the nearest bar that still played disco music and didn’t ask silly questions like why was an RCM officer killing himself the slowest way possible and making it everyone else’s problem when he had a perfectly good service pistol at home.

It did the job it was intended for, was the answer. It shut off your memory-making functions bit by bit until you could *finally* forget what you’d seen and heard. 

Jean didn’t know how serious it was, back then. How frequently you would look into someone’s eyes and not be able to place them next to a name, like the first drips of a dam about to break. 

Because it never happened to him. The distinct scent always guaranteed a memory of him, if no one else.

At some point—even the amygdalan response to it can’t pinpoint the exact time—you bought him a birthday present.

Eau de parfum.

It was called Mustang and it smelled just like you—dark, disco, and dangerous. It was the smoke covering up the corners of a bar where no one would care what you got up to as long as you didn’t spill anything on the floor. It was a vestige of an old time—your time—and even though you laughed at the joke of a name, something writhed deep in your gut when you smelled it on him. 

The first time. Every time. 

No matter how many times you caught the hint of it, it would drag something deep and primal out of you for just a single flash of a moment. A snapshot of another you. A man you might be if you let yourself feel again for a single goddamn second. 

But you didn’t. You couldn’t.

You just laughed it off and called Jean ‘Mustang Vic’ and he hated you for it.

INLAND EMPIRE — And now you aren’t the same you anymore. But you still remember that smell. 

After everything, you still remember.

YOU — “Oh, god...I really fucked up.”

JEAN VICQUEMARE — Your ex-partner’s mouth snaps shut for a heartbeat before he gathers his anger around him again. “Oh, *now* he says he fucked up! When he drinks himself into full retrograde amnesia, that’s just a *whoopsie* but when he sits on information like this for a month, *that’s* a fuckup.”

YOU — Your jaw clenches. “Jean, I’ve asked you to stop blaming me for everything.”

JEAN VICQUEMARE — “Cry me a fucking river, Harry! This *is* your fault, whether you want to admit it or not.”

YOU — “This isn’t about the Pale!” Now you’re the one leaning in, pushing into Jean’s space until he finally takes a step back. But you don’t allow him even that tiny distance; you close in once more, using your height to your advantage.“This is about you saying that you were going to give me a chance and then falling back to this at the slightest provocation.”

You can’t help it. Jean brings out the argument in you, the part that hates to be wrong. You want so badly to be the better man for the sake of a kinder future, but when both of you are working with different memories, how can you reconcile that?

JEAN VICQUEMARE — Jean seems to be struggling with the same problem as you, both of you swallowing back words that are scrambling to your throats through muscle memory. When he speaks again, his voice is just as rough as yours, low and held far back in his throat. 

“‘Slightest provocation’?” He scoffs half-heartedly, unable to look you in the eye for longer than a moment. “Who the fuck even are you? You never said shit like that before.”

YOU — You scrub at your face in frustration. “So first I’m the same man no matter how hard I try to change and now I’m someone else because I say something different than usual? Which is it, Jean?” Your voice sounds tired even to you. “It can’t be both at once.”

JEAN VICQUEMARE — “Fuck off.”

RHETORIC [Medium: Success] — He’s not really thinking anymore; he’s just trying to get you riled up. He’s trying to get a reaction and thus the upper hand because you’re cornering him.

YOU — “No. I’m not going anywhere. I may have fucked up before—”

Jean’s bark of laughter cuts through the middle of your words, but you power ahead without letting him interrupt. 

“—but I’m not going to run away anymore.” You study him as you speak and marvel at the truth that hides barely beneath the surface. 

PERCEPTION (Hearing) [Trivial: Success] — His breath is unsteady.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT [Trivial: Success] — His shoulders are curled in and his fists are clenched.

HALF LIGHT [Medium: Failure] — He’s spoiling for a fight.

EMPATHY [Challenging: Success] — He’s *afraid*. 

> **1.- Of me?**

AUTHORITY [Medium: Success] — Partly. 

SUGGESTION — But mostly not. It’s what you might *do*. What your words really mean, if they’re true.

HABITUS [Medium: Success] — He doesn’t know who you are anymore. 

ANIMA [Easy: Success] — He doesn’t believe that you could have ever committed to changing now, since you failed so many times before. So you must be someone else.

EMPATHY [Formidable: Success] — But if you’re not the same Harry he knows, that means he lost you. It means he has to grieve.

RESILIENCE [Formidable: Success] — This *is* his grief. This was his mourning process for someone who is still alive and you were just caught in the crossfire.

VOLITION — What are you going to do about it, Harry?

> **1.- Confront Jean.**
> 
> 2.- Drop the subject and crank the lift back up to the ground floor.

YOU — “And that scares you.” You lean closer, looking deep into his widening eyes. You wonder why he doesn’t move away, but are thankful for it because it means you can catch the tiny clues he gives you without having to dig for them. 

“That’s why you’re acting like this, isn’t it? You’re afraid.”

JEAN VICQUEMARE — Jean tries to shake his head and say, “I’m not afraid—”

YOU — But you interrupt him, not letting him dig himself deeper into denial. “Yes, you are. You’re afraid of trusting me again. Because you think I can’t possibly be the Harry you knew anymore. Because he had a one-way ticket to self-destruction and didn’t care who he took down with him.”

JEAN VICQUEMARE — “If that’s your argument for being a different person now, then I’ve got some news for you, *Lieutenant*.” Jean puffs his chest, his grey eyes heated. “Going off without your partner into a dangerous situation because ‘you can handle it’? Classic suicidal Du Bois.”

YOU — “I *know* I fucked up, Jean!” The words explode out of you, and even though you can see his satisfaction of getting you off-balance, you don’t care. It’s the truth and you have to say it. “I fucked up with you before and I fucked up with Kim, too! I *know*. But I never said I wouldn’t fuck up sometimes. I’m just a man.”

You drag your hands through your hair, pulling at it roughly before dropping them down in a gesture of supplication. Jean’s gaze stays stubbornly on your face, but you know that he can see. 

“I’m *trying*, Jean. I can’t remember everything I’ve done, but Judit and Trant and the others have told me some things. And what they won’t tell me, I hear anyway. I *listen* and I see the looks and I’m trying to be better. I’m trying to be someone you can trust again. I don’t—I don’t want to be that anymore. I can’t be that animal anymore.”

COMPOSURE [Heroic: Failure] — You try your best not to let the hitch start in your voice, but there are tears burning in the backs of your eyes and your throat is thick with emotion. 

YOU — “I’m still—I know I’m still the same man. I still have the same cravings; I still want to fucking drink myself into oblivion when I think about how much shit is out there that I can’t fix.” You swallow hard at the admission. It feels like weakness, but maybe that’s what you need right now. “I still want to give up sometimes. When everything gets too hard.”

Jean looks uncomfortable about that, but you don’t know if it’s because it’s too intimate to be shared, or because it hit too close to home.

“And I know I can’t just move on like none of it ever happened. I don’t want that. I can’t make it right, but I can try to build something new. It’s all I have, Jean. Just let me try.” You don’t mean to, but you’re reaching for Jean as you speak, now, unsure of what you even want. “Please, just give me a chance—”

ARCHIVE LIFT — Before you can touch him, though, Jean sucks in a breath through his teeth and lashes out with a hard shove to your shoulders that knocks you off balance. On instinct, you sling your arm around the back of his neck in a loose headlock that drags him forward as you stumble back. With a choked grunt, Jean lunges into the fall, his arms snapping around your torso as the both of you slam back into the lift wall, shaking it alarmingly. 

HALF LIGHT [Medium: Failure] — CHOKE HIM OUT BEFORE HE KILLS BOTH OF YOU

YOU — “Jean—what the fuck—”

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT [Heroic: Success] — HE’S RIGHT, FUCK HIM UP, SHOW HIM WHO’S THE BIG DOG 

JEAN VICQUEMARE — “Get fucked, Harrier! Let me go!”

AUTHORITY [Medium: Success] — This is your chance to put him back in his place. Keep those *textbook conflict resolution* police moves coming!

VISUAL CALCULUS [Easy: Success] — Where you went for a standard restraining hold, Jean has tried a classic takedown technique, and neither of you succeeded, because the space in this lift is extremely limited.

SAVOIR FAIRE [Challenging: Failure] — So now that your impotent scuffling and shuffling in place has worn itself out, you’re both just sort of...hugging.

ANIMA [Easy: Success] — Which is nice, actually. Much more satisfying than whatever *that* was supposed to be.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT [Challenging: Failure] — Uhhh…is this...what you were trying to do? Are you the big dog now?

HALF LIGHT — I DON’T KNOW

PERCEPTION (Touch) [Trivial: Success] — Jean’s head is pressed tight to your chest, his mussed hair tickling your mouth where you are bent over him awkwardly. His arms have slackened from their vice grip around you and his knees have relaxed, giving over more of his body weight to your hold.

CONCEPTUALIZATION [Medium: Success] — From an outsider perspective, this would undeniably be a hug.

ANIMA [Easy: Success] — Forget outsider perspective. Do *you* want it to be a hug?

HALF LIGHT — I WOULD LIKE IT TO BE OVER NOW, PLEASE

PAIN THRESHOLD [Easy: Success] — It should definitely be over soon if you don’t want to be in physical pain over how difficult it is to ignore that you are just holding Jean tenderly.

VOLITION [Trivial: Success] — You should probably say something.

JEAN VICQUEMARE — “Harry?”

YOU — “Yeah, Jean?”

JEAN VICQUEMARE — “What, uh...what are we doing?”

YOU — “I think we might be hugging.”

JEAN VICQUEMARE — Jean’s body jumps from within the circle of your arms and you realise that he’s laughing silently, tiny snorts chuffing out of him. It gets you chuckling, too, especially when he mumbles,

“Yeah, you fucking wish.”

ANIMA [Challenging: Success] — You really do.

INLAND EMPIRE [Easy: Success] — Especially since you know, now, that you’ve already had plenty of hugs from him before.

YOU — “Don’t try to pretend like you don’t want this to be a hug, too, *Mustang*.”

JEAN VICQUEMARE — Jean’s laughter cuts off suddenly as he pulls back, peering up at you nervously for what feels like an eternity before whispering, “What did you call me?”

ARCHIVE LIFT — Before you can tell him what you remember, the emergency radio next to the crank emits a cacophony of static that forms into a barely distinguishable voice after a second. 

JULES PIDIEU — “Lieutenants Vicquemare and Du Bois, are you there?” 

JEAN VICQUEMARE — Jean and you immediately disentangle and move over to the radio. “We’re here Jules, what’s the situation?”

JULES PIDIEU — “There has been a request from Martinaise for urgent response. Lieutenant Kitsuragi has accepted on Harry’s behalf. Said that he would want to go.”

YOU — You exchange a look with Jean before shrugging with a nod. 

JEAN VICQUEMARE — Jean holds the radio handset up to his mouth, though he still glares over at you. “He *grudgingly* accepts.”

YOU — “I’m not *grudgingly*—” Jean gives you a tiny smirk and you cross your arms.

“Motherfucker.”

JEAN VICQUEMARE — “Over and out, Jules.” The radio clicks off once more and the silence that falls in the lift is heavy with everything left unspoken. You lock eyes, Jean’s betraying a flood of emotion that neither of you can address right now. 

He sighs slowly, deflated.

YOU — You smile crookedly. “Duty calls.”

JEAN VICQUEMARE — Jean huffs and nods, turning back to the crank. 

**BREAKTHROUGH IMMINENT**

YOU — As you watch his back shift with each turn of the handle, a thought comes to you and you clap your hand to his shoulder, squeezing firmly. 

JEAN VICQUEMARE — And like a miracle, Jean’s hand comes up to cover yours without a word between you.

**THOUGHT COMPLETED: What’s in a Name?**

**-1 COMPOSURE**

**+1 HABITUS**

**+1 VOLITION**

ARCHIVE LIFT — It only takes a few moments more for the lift to shudder to a stop at the ground floor, the chatter from each wing muted. 

JEAN VICQUEMARE — Jean turns to look at you, finally, your hands slipping apart naturally. 

“Alright. I’m gonna...catch Jude up. See if we can get out of here before dawn.”

YOU — You waffle, unsure if you should say more or leave it until a better time.

JEAN VICQUEMARE — Jean takes your options away with a stiff push to your chest that knocks you out of the lift. “Walk it off, coach. You’ve got a job to do.”

RHETORIC [Medium: Success] — There is a smile in his voice, even if you can’t see one on his face.

SUGGESTION [Easy: Success] — He means: “We can talk about this later.”

YOU — You give him your best impression of stoicism with a sharp nod, turning and leaving him there as you make your way out to the yard. You spot Kim waiting in the Kineema and jog over, hopping inside after a quick rap on the window to let him know it’s you. You take care not to slam the door behind you, blowing into your hands to warm them up as Kim switches off the cabin light and waits for you to get settled.

KIM KITSURAGI — “Good talk?”

YOU — You study Kim’s profile, hoping to glean something from him despite the darkness.

And—as though he can feel you watching—he glances over with a look that is somehow reassuring in its inscrutability.

“It was enlightening.” You frown. “I think.”

KIM KITSURAGI — Kim makes a noise that could be a laugh. “That’s all I’d expect out of the both of you.” He shifts the Kineema into gear and steers into the street, heading for the highway north with the moon at your backs.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: a cold case reopens and Kim learns about the Jamrock Shuffle.
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/TellCosy)/[tumblr](https://tellcosy.tumblr.com)
> 
> You know what's funny? We roll for pretty much all of Harry's active checks and he really did fail all of those up there, one after another. Poor guy.


	8. Joie de Vivre Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martinaise once again holds insights for Kim.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, yet another two-parter because Kim apparently feels the need to have this sort of pacing! 
> 
> Enjoy <3

  
  


The road to Martinaise is dark and empty, the whole world gone to sleep.

Kim distantly feels his own tiredness tugging at his neck, pulling his body back into the seat while his arms lock on the wheel. He doesn’t enjoy the sensation of being in two places at once, but there is little to be done. Urgent response is urgent response. 

_You could always let Harry drive_.

Kim doesn’t even acknowledge the thought with an argument. Whether or not he trusts Harry with his motorcarriage is a moot point; Harry is asleep. 

Has _been_ asleep since the moment they hit the open road outside of Jamrock.

Kim briefly considered waking him up when he first heard the snores, partly out of practicality and partly because being sleep-deprived always makes him nasty. There is a horrible side of him that comes out when he doesn’t get enough sleep, and tonight it is especially vindictive, considering Harry himself is the reason for the tiredness.

_Why should he get to sleep? He didn’t_ have _to wake up in the middle of the night to go back to those tunnels. He just did it to spite you._

Kim is letting him sleep because even going slow it’s only half an hour drive, and because Harry functions even worse than he does when he’s tired, and because…

Because Kim cares too much.

Because the thought of allowing Harry this peaceful rest makes warmth bloom behind his ribcage. 

It’s dreamlike, this feeling. Drapes a pocket of timelessness over the both of them, granting Kim the space to allow it instead of turn away immediately.

With Harry tucked up against his side, cheek smooshed against his shoulder, hair curling down and tickling his bare arm, it would only be natural to take his hand from where it worries the gearshift. To slip it around Harry and straighten the slump of his back. Give him support while he rests. Let him closer. Breathe in the smell of his soap on Harry’s skin.

A tiny mark of permanence. A thumbprint of attachment.

He could imagine the tension in himself giving way at the touch of someone he trusts again. Finally, finally trusting again. 

He could imagine pressing his lips to Harry’s temple and feeling the pulse there. 

He could imagine it jumping. Imagine Harry waking up slow under his touch and giving him that look again; the one that had scared him more than any gunfight ever had. Green-grey eyes full of wonder, spilling over with adoration, joy welling up beneath.

Like Kim was the one who made the sun rise.

Only this time it wouldn’t scare him. Because in the quiet, sleepy space between the Kineema’s doors, there would be no room for fear. 

Just trust. Just this easy care; Kim taking care of Harry and Harry taking care of Kim.

But he doesn’t do those things, natural or not. Because Harry needs sleep and he needs to drive them to Martinaise, where they will have to deal with Evrart Claire even before processing the bombshell that Harry found that night.

Kim yawns.

A murder, Jules had said. Someone involved in the hanging. He hadn’t given specifics, and more than anything, that is what rankles. Kim doesn’t like going into a situation without having _some_ foreknowledge. But where a normal citizen would be expected to give as much information as possible at the call-in, the Claires have always had different rules. 

It’s starting to feel familiar, driving up to Martinaise to clean up their mess when they always insist that they are self-sufficient. More than happy to keep the RCM out of their business. 

Except when there’s a dead body that pops up.

_You’re being uncharitable._

Of course he is. It’s the dead of night and his eyes are tired, he got woken up by a dream where Harry disappeared only to find him actually gone, and he just found out that the Pale is eating Revachol from beneath. 

_That’s not all it is, is it?_

No. No; as embarrassing as it is, that isn’t even the bulk of the reason why. But Kim is on a job now and he doesn’t have time to let Harry distract him from it, no matter if he’s trying to or not. He knows he’ll have to face up to it soon, though. The dread that had swept over him at the sight of the empty bed is nothing compared to the mortification sitting heavily in his gut. 

_Your fault he went up there. You got_ scared _and he was trying to save you another panic attack. Save you whimpering on his shoulder again._

Kim isn’t going to think about it right now. There’s only a few minutes until they swing around the coastline and Martinaise rises into view and he’s not going to spend them putting himself out of his comfort zone with introspection.

So he orders them— 

> URGENT — The Swallows and what might be done/who should be informed
> 
> URGENT — What Kim can do to help Judit now that she’s left her husband
> 
> SEMI-URGENT — Kim’s feelings for Harry, both romantic and sexual
> 
> SEMI-URGENT — Harry’s feelings for Jean and what they might mean for him
> 
> SEMI-URGENT — Jean’s sexual curiosity with regards to Kim
> 
> NON-URGENT — The Pale and Harry’s connection to it

—and he tucks them away until later. They’re important—very important—but he has never been at his best when distracted by his personal life. 

He focuses instead on the whining thrum of the engine and the sound of Harry’s snores under his ear until the tops of the tenements crest the coastal slope, long shadows cast across them by the dim lampposts. He wonders if it would be best to stop further out into the fishing village and walk the rest of the way to save the sleeping villagers from the racket of the Kineema, but—as he decided before—he isn’t feeling particularly charitable.

He squints as they approach the traffic jam, taking note that the drivers seem to have built a sort of temporary housing for themselves with the trucks circled together off to the side. The gates to the harbour are still shut tight, so he pulls right up to the Whirling, headlights flooding the cafeteria before he kills the engine. Harry snorts awake beside him.

“Whuh?”

“We’re here,” he says as gently as he can manage. “You fell asleep.”

“Oh,” Harry says, blinking and wiping at his mouth as Kim eases out from under him. “I didn’t know I fell asleep. I guess I was dreaming that you were—” He cuts himself off suddenly, eyes going comically wide, as if he’d just remembered something. 

Kim raises his brows. 

Harry clears his throat. “You were talking. I dreamt that you were still talking to me.”

Kim watches as a flush creeps up Harry’s neck. “Oh? And what was I saying to get you to give me that look?”

Harry swallows visibly before scrambling out of the Kineema and shaking out the creases in his trousers. Kim does the same, keeping his head crooked towards him, but Harry just clears his throat and points over to the Whirling, saying,

“Oh, look! We’re here.”

“Yes,” Kim says, his lips twitching as he barely manages to hold back a laugh. “We are.”

“Do you think they’re still serving dinner?” Harry asks, leaning his whole body over to peer into the cafeteria. “I know it’s late, but…”

Kim snorts. “I think we’ll be lucky if there’s anyone here willing to bring us to Evrart.”

Harry shrugs a shoulder, wandering over to the front entrance of the Whirling. “Eh. Even if there isn’t, I can always talk my way through the locked doors again.”

Kim sighs at the reminder, but says nothing, simply following him through the glass doors and making sure they don’t bang shut behind them. 

Not that it would matter, it seems, considering there are still people up and about in the dining hall, though they barely give them a glance once they see who they are. Kim vaguely recognises most of the faces from their first stint in the village, but there’s someone waiting in the wing with an expectant look that he’ll never be able to forget.

“Party too much, Hardie?” Harry asks the big man currently slumped into one of the union booths, sticking his hands into his pockets and strolling over with a little smile. 

“Fuck off, Du Bois,” Titus Hardie bites back half-heartedly, snapping his trucker’s cap back on as if to make a point. 

“You look like shit.”

Kim doesn’t bother holding back another sigh, coming to stand next to Harry. He stops with a frown when he notices the two children tucked into the booth furthest from the door, their heads barely poking up behind the counter. Red hair and FALN clothes on both: it’s the Cunos.

“A real nice thing to say, pig. You got no room to talk,” Titus growls, shifting higher into his seat, but not by much. Kim turns his full attention back to the man and is sorry to agree: he does look like shit. 

His eyes are bloodshot and bruised with exhaustion underneath. His skin is sallow and hair much longer, strands of it shoved down by the cap. His five o’clock shadow from before has turned into a full beard, curly and unkempt. His hands shake as he reaches for the can of beer in front of him, but he manages to grab it without missing, so he probably isn’t as drunk as he appears to be.

Kim’s instincts are calling out that something is wrong, especially considering the vague information of ‘someone died who was connected to the hanging.’

“Titus,” he begins, stepping forward until he has breached the doorway to the union booths, “we’re here because we got an urgent response call saying that there’s been a murder.”

Titus snorts roughly into his beer.

“What happened?” Harry asks, sliding into the seat across from Titus. Kim stands beside him, taking out his notebook and pen just in case.

“What _happened_?” Titus repeats loudly before catching himself and looking over at the Cunos, brows twisted with concern. When he sees that he hasn’t woken them, he turns back to Harry and Kim with a sour scowl. “What happened is that people are dyin’ out here and no one can do a damn thing about it.”

“Has there been more than the one murder?” Kim asks, pausing in his preliminary notes for the case. 

Titus seems to deliberate with himself for a moment—presumably over whether or not to cooperate—before his shoulders fall forward. “Three, now. An elderly woman further down the coast, this one’s pop,” he jerks his chin over to Cuno, “and now Alain.”

“Why didn’t you call us for the other ones?” Harry asks, leaning forward onto his arms crossed on the counter. 

Titus’s lip curls. “Why do you think?”

“I believe what my partner is asking is,” Kim begins with a dry look, “why did this particular murder get reported and not the others?”

“Because Evrart doesn’t give a shit about anyone who ain’t makin’ him money,” Titus spits out before his face suddenly crumples and he presses his fist to his forehead. “Fuck. _Fuck_. Fuck this.”

Harry and Kim exchange a look and Kim tries to communicate nonverbally that Harry should take the lead. He’s generally much better at the empathetic side of things, and Kim is happy to be the backup here.

“Evrart was the one who called us in,” Harry says, turning back to Titus with a sudden focus. “Do you know where he is?”

“You don’t—” Titus snaps, slapping his hand down on the table before glancing over at the kids again, his eyes filmy with something like despair. Again, it’s only once he sees that he hasn’t woken the children that his gaze creeps back to Harry, narrowed dangerously. “Don’t fucking patronise me, Du Bois. Don’t try your can-opener bullshit on me this time.”

Harry looks as though he might try to argue against it, but after a moment where they lock eyes like dogs squaring off across a street, he relaxes and says, “Alright. I won’t.”

“Good,” Titus barks, swiping his palm across his mouth. His leg bounces with energy below the booth counter and when he speaks, he stabs the counter with a finger. “‘Cause I don’t plan on holding back this time. There’s—there’s something _wrong_ and if any motherfucker is gonna help this town, it’ll be the crazy bastard who threw a molotov cocktail at a fucking merc.”

Harry’s brows twitch up as Titus’s shoulders shake with helpless laughter.

“Are you suggesting that Krenel are involved again?” Kim asks, trying to ignore the way his blood runs cold at the thought.

“Maybe,” Titus says quickly, his laughter disappearing as quickly as it arrived. He looks up at Kim with a sneer. “What if they were? Scared?”

“Any sane person would be,” Kim says dryly, refusing to take the bait.

“Yeah,” Titus grunts, then gestures over to Harry. “Bet he isn’t scared.”

Kim watches as Harry’s eyes dance across Titus’s face, clearly discussing the situation with his skills before coming to a conclusion. “Nope,” he says cheerfully, “I’m always scared. Every single day of my life I almost shit myself with fear about what’s out there waiting for us.”

Titus crooks his head, leaning forward to peer at Harry. After a few moments, he mumbles, “You’re different, Du Bois.”

“Sobriety will do that to you.”

Titus snorts again, looking down at his beer and nodding loosely. “Yeah.” He exhales wetly. “Yeah.”

Kim and Harry both let him have a little while just to think before Kim asks,

“What happened to Alain, Titus?”

Titus is quiet for a little longer before speaking, his voice thick with his chin pointed to his chest. “Evrart’s been mumbling a lot about this one girl. Amelie. Don’t know a last name. Says that she’s messed around and gotten her fingers in the wrong pie or something.” His head falls back and he yawns. “Sounds like she’s on the run from someone and he wants to use her as leverage. But she’s been missing for a while so I guess he’s gonna ask you guys to find her for him.”

Kim blinks, mentally shuffling through his active cases at the mention of the name and ‘missing’. 

THE FROZEN ELEMAGINEERING STUDENT.

Amelie Laurent.

He wonders if it’s the same girl or just a coincidence.

He wagers there are a lot of girls named Amelie who have gone missing in Revachol.

“But that has nothing to do with the reason why no one else was reported. ‘Cause they weren’t murdered,” Titus mumbles, tilting his chin at them with a hint of that defiance they’d seen in him before. “And neither was Alain. This is just an excuse to get you guys to work for him.” His lip curls. “He’s been looking for something for a while.”

“What?”

Titus shakes his head at Harry as though trying to loosen his thoughts. “None of them were _murdered_. They all just stopped living.”

Another glance between Harry and Kim.

“Were you the one who found them?” Kim asks grimly.

“I was with Alain, but the others…” He gestures vaguely.

“We get you,” Harry says.

“They all just looked like they’d fallen asleep.” Titus’s voice is vague, as though he’s seeing them again.

Kim isn’t sure what shakes him more: Titus using the exact wording he’s heard over a dozen times now or the way he looks so defeated about it. Titus Hardie isn’t a man Kim would have pinned for easily defeated.

And when he sees Harry studying Titus’s face, he knows that he’s thinking the same.

“I know it doesn’t make any sense—”

“It’s happening down south, too,” Harry interrupts. When Titus frowns at him, he rolls one hand palm-up in a sort of shrug. “Same thing. People just—dying. Looks like they fell asleep mid-step, sometimes.”

Titus swallows visibly, nodding. His eyes go distant for a few moments before sharpening on both of them again. “Alain didn’t even make it out the door. Died right on the step.”

Harry looks to where Titus points, but Kim just watches the man himself. His hands aren’t shaking anymore. His shoulders have pulled back.

“Wait, so you moved the—” Harry begins, but stops when Kim quietly clears his throat. When Harry flicks his eyes over to Kim, he raises his brows pointedly, and Harry gives him an apologetic grimace. “Right. Yeah. Anyway. Uh.”

Titus just shakes his head.

“Did Alain say anything strange before this happened?” Kim offers as a way to get back on track, and Harry puffs out a relieved breath.

“Not really,” Titus grunts, taking what looks to be the last swig of his beer. He crumples the can onto the counter and slouches back in his seat, rubbing at his eyes. When he speaks, it’s through his hands. “He’s—he’d been hearing stuff, though.”

“‘Stuff?’” Harry asks, leaning forward with interest.

“Through the radio.” Titus drops his hands back to the counter heavily. “Voices. People talking.” He hesitates, looking mildly uncomfortable, as though unsure whether it’s a breach of trust to tell them. “Glen. Angus. The—the other Hardies.”

The word is left unspoken there: the _dead_ Hardies.

“And Klaasje. Of all people.” 

“When he died—” Kim jumps in before he can think not to ask. He knows it is best to get the unbiased statement from the witnesses before asking probing questions, but he trusts Hardie to give him what happened and nothing more. As Harry suggested the last time they spoke, Titus is much like them in how he does his job. So he feels confident in asking, “When he died, was the radio in the cafeteria broken?”

Titus studies him with confusion for a long time before he simply nods.

Kim sucks in a slow, silent breath through his teeth. 

Harry watches him, his face pinching as the pieces fall together. The voices that Harry has been hearing, the presence of radio static at every scene, the memory of Harry standing at the intercom outside, speaking to someone who obviously hadn’t been in that building for a very long time…

“When I found the bolt,” Harry says suddenly, “she said that what I’d heard in the static was from ‘the other side.’”

Kim knows he should be upset that Harry is discussing their active cases in front of a citizen, but the implication of his words is far too important to quibble over regulations.

He can only assume that by ‘she’ he means Revachol, which means that the other side... 

The Pale?

The _Pale_ is responsible for this?

Kim’s mind races, trying to fit all the clues to this new possibility. Something feels not quite right about it, but maybe it’s just the inherent horror of the Pale invading the city he cares about dearly.

“The other side? What’re you talking about?” Titus asks, scowling between them. “Who’s ‘she’? Klaasje?”

“Titus,” Harry says, as serious as Kim has ever heard him, “do you know about what’s inside that church down the coast?”

“You mean the kids?” He shrugs. “I know they party in there, but I got more important stuff to take care of than kicking them out of some ancient church.”

Harry shakes his head. “No. Not the kids. But they know about it. Them and a woman named Soona who uses the space, too.”

“Soona…” Titus repeats, as if trying to place the name to a face. He raises his eyebrows. “One of those computer freaks that used to hole up in the DCA?”

“Soona is not a—”

“Yes, her and her fellow programmers used to have office space in the building,” Kim interjects, hoping to stop the argument before it starts. “She may not be in the church, still, though. That was back when we were still on the Hanged—the case of the mercenary.”

Titus grunts in acknowledgement. “So—what about her?”

“You need to go talk to her,” Harry says, tapping the counter to put emphasis on his words.

Titus looks between Harry, his fingers, and Kim.

Kim just raises his brows a tiny bit.

“Really?” Titus asks, eyes wide with disbelief. “You think she had something to do with this?”

“No,” Harry says, waving off the thought. “She just knows about what this is and frankly—frankly, we don’t really have the time to explain it to you well enough. We still have to go see Evrart, whether or not the people here were actually murdered.”

Titus barks out a laugh. “Yeah. Good luck with that. Lizzy said she saw him take some pretty heavy-duty sleeping pills just before she left to call it in for him. He thought you two would wait until the morning to come.”

Harry gapes.

“No chance of waking him up for a statement, then, hm?” Kim asks, checking his watch despite the futility of it.

Titus just gives him a shark-like grin.

Kim sighs.

Of course.

“I suppose it’s the hostel rooms again for us, then,” he mutters mostly to himself before snapping his notebook closed and tucking it away. “Thank you for your cooperation, anyway. We appreciate it.”

“Didn’t do it for you.”

“But you did it,” Harry says, holding his hand out for a handshake. “And that’s what matters.”

Titus glares at Harry’s hand, but when he doesn’t retract, he claps his own into it and gives him a rough shake across the counter.

As they make to leave the union wing, though, Titus adds, “Just another little tip for you two.” When they look back at him, his shark grin makes a return and Kim knows he’s about to be made the butt of a joke. “That union-buster bitch has been staying in the big room upstairs after what happened a month ago, so unless you want her knowing about you two, I’d try to keep it quiet.”

“Keep what quiet?” Harry asks, painfully clueless. “Joyce already knows us.”

Titus looks like he’d be delighted to continue his joke, but Kim cuts in with, “Thank you for the tip. We’ll be sure to keep it down.” He gives him a pointed look and adds, “What about you, though?”

“Pretty sure everyone in Martinaise knows how my tastes run by now,” Titus throws back at him easily. 

Kim glances over at Harry to see the cogs spinning in his head, and lets out a tired grunt. “Not that. I meant, where are _you_ staying? Because I hope you aren’t planning on leaving those children here to be looked after by—” He leans back to see that Lawrence Garte is the one manning the counter despite the late—early—hour. “By Mr. Garte.”

“Don’t worry about the kids,” Titus insists, more vehemence in his voice than Kim had expected. “We’re all looking after them, even if they are little monsters sometimes. We don’t let ours go hungry around here.”

Kim searches his eyes for a moment to be sure that he isn’t just bluffing him before giving him a terse nod and reaching out for a handshake as well.

Only a moment passes before Titus takes it.

“Take care of yourself, Titus Hardie,” Kim says, shaking his hand.

“Stay away from radios for a bit, alright?” Harry says, the little chuckle he gives belying the seriousness of the situation. “And don’t forget to talk to Soona and the kids.”

“Sure. Hope I don’t see you guys around again for a while.”

Harry snorts and together, he and Kim trudge over to the bar where Garte waits, watching them out of the corner of his eye. Before they can even ask, he slides two keys across the counter, muttering petulantly,

“I couldn’t help but overhear. I wasn’t _trying_ to listen in or anything. You all just talk very loudly.”

“Is that all the thanks we get for coming back to help you again, Garte?” Harry asks with a smirk, crossing his arms. 

Garte looks like he’d like to say something particularly biting to Harry, but Kim’s exasperated noise gets his eyes flicking over.

“What do we owe you?” 

The young man looks between the two of them before dismissively flicking a finger up from the ledger he’s scrawling in. “Nothing. It’s been slow anyway and you won’t be staying a whole day, presumably. Just go. I’d rather see the backs of you again than argue about the politics behind legally charging for a room.”

“Thank you, Mr. Garte,” Kim says before Harry can even think to come up with something ridiculous to say. “We appreciate it.”

Garte just sighs with something like weary disgust and goes back to his ledger. Kim grabs both of the keys and leads the way up the stairs, mind sluggish with the heaviness of the night. Harry swears quietly about halfway up and Kim glances back to see him clutch at his leg.

_Must be aching. He hasn’t treated it well tonight._

Kim’s joints ache in sympathy, but he just lets out a breath and climbs the stairs a little slower, letting Harry catch up. It feels like they are both falling to pieces by the time they reach the top, and when they stand at their respective doors, the ache moves to his heart.

“This is familiar, huh,” Harry says with a poor attempt at a laugh, looking at everything on the balcony besides the door he’s about to enter.

Kim suddenly wishes he’d insisted on driving them back home. Or crashing at Jean’s place. Or staying at any place besides the one where Harry tried to erase his own existence.

“You don’t have to—” He stops suddenly, looking down at the keys he’s clutching. It’s easier than looking at Harry when he speaks. It reminds him too much of being back here after almost losing him. “You don’t have to stay in that one. I don’t mind taking it.”

“And give up the better view? Hah, you wish,” Harry says, his hand appearing in Kim’s vision, reaching for the key. When Kim looks up into his eyes, he has the urge to grab his hand and take him away from that door. To spare him the reminder of everything terrible that happened there. He wants to pull him into his tiny room and fold him into bed, safe and happy. 

He doesn’t want Harry to hurt anymore.

But there’s so many ways for him to proceed—so many unspoken words resting between them that are clamouring to be said—that he ends up doing nothing, just standing there until Harry slides the key out of his hand and gives him a sad smile. 

“Goodnight, Kim. See you bright and early.”

Kim nods, throat sticky with everything he wants to say.

_Don’t go. You don’t have to stay there. You won’t be weak if you don’t._

_Don’t go. I don’t want you to sacrifice yourself for me._

_Don’t go. I’m scared of what’s happening and I think you are, too._

_Don’t go. I won’t know how to sleep without you there with me anymore._

But he just nods. He nods and watches Harry limp into the room and hates that he doesn’t know how to say what he needs to say. He hates that he’s afraid that he does know what to say but can’t justify it to himself.

The door clicks shut.

Kim exhales shakily.

He unlocks his own door and does his best to get settled, one ear on the sound of running water in the bathroom while he undresses. His mind provides him with images of the bath he’d seen a month ago, bottles and cans thrown carelessly into it. His lungs are tight as he scribbles down as much of the day’s report as he can, pushing his fingers behind his glasses to rub at his eyes. And when the water shuts off in the bathroom, he holds his breath to listen to the sound of Harry going to bed.

Then the silence after.

Long, long silence.

His heart pounds and he doesn’t know why.

_You know why._

He crawls into bed, the chill of the sheets making him shiver.

_Nothing to distract you from what’s happening outside._

Outside his window, birdsong. 

_Nothing to distract you from what’s happening inside._

He wants to sleep. He’s desperate for it, but adrenaline races through his veins.

_You put it aside but it isn’t going to go away._

Why?

_You need to look at it. It’s eating you up, Kim._

He waits only ten minutes before kicking off his covers and dragging out a sci-fi serial from his satchel, taking it back to bed with him. The lamp on the desk is somehow both dim and blinding, the filament leaving trails of yellow in his vision. He does his best to read, anyway, forcing himself to understand the words that barely skim past him. He stays dogged at it even when he begins to read and reread the same paragraphs multiple times about a world without Pale, without constant fear of entropy. Without fear of suddenly losing someone to something he can’t even see.

_You can’t run forever._

The words enter through his eyes but bounce off his brain. There begins to be something hypnotic about them. Something that feels like a mantra, a chant to grant him access to a different part of consciousness.

Or maybe he’s just asleep and doesn’t know it yet.

_You can’t run forever._

_You’ll only finish the lap and catch up to yourself again._

Maybe that’s what he needs. Maybe he’s run for so long because he’s trying to get back to the young man who could still open himself up for others. The Kim that could still take that risk without worrying about the consequences.

_But if you want to, then aren’t you already there?_

He doesn’t know. Life with Harry has been at once slow and shockingly fast. If he’s honest with himself, it scares him a little bit just _how_ fast Harry has become integral to his sense of peace. Even now he’s lying awake, fighting against the desire to cross the bridge of the bathroom and go to him.

It strikes him, then.

The parallel between him now and the him from a month ago. 

Back then, he’d told himself it wasn’t his business to comfort Harry even if he wanted to. That he didn’t know him well enough for that and even if he did, they were on a case. That it would be unprofessional to mix work and personal issues. 

Excuse after excuse just to convince himself not to allow that one small kindness to both of them.

Because kindness can be dangerous. Kindness can be used against him. 

Or it can make him vulnerable.

_Harry has seen you at your most vulnerable now, and he held you up instead of letting you fall._

He has. Many times now, he’s seen Kim lose his composure and he’s never taken advantage of it. How many times has Kim lain awake in the dark after a nightmare, struggling to talk himself back down, only to have Harry wake up and shuffle over to sit beside him? Knowing, somehow, that in that moment, that is all he needs, and gives it without thought.

Why is it so hard for Kim to just _ask_ for that, even now? He has allowed Harry so completely into his life, but he still finds it an impossible task to face what has grown between them.

_Because you’re afraid you’ll give him that last bit of yourself._

His book slumps to his lap. He stares at the shadows that dart in front of the lamppost outside, realising that they are birds. 

Swallows. 

They swoop and frisk, whirling together in a dance that looks both dangerous and exhilarating, clipping their wings close but never quite touching. 

He watches them, dizzy with realisation.

He wants to deny the thought. To tell himself that he doesn’t understand, he doesn’t believe it, he couldn’t possibly. 

But he knows. 

_You’re afraid that you’re falling in love._

He shivers, closing his eyes when the swallows finally alight on the lamppost, nesting together. 

He’s afraid that he already has.

The ordered side of him—the side that craves everything to be where he left it and tells him he doesn’t have time to try new things—wants to write down every bit of evidence. A detailed report on the case. He wants to approach it logically. 

But this isn’t something to _solve_.

This is something deep inside of him, old and unpredictable.

This is him pouring out all the alcohol he’d collected over the years he’d lived at that apartment, despite hating to waste food. This is him sitting in the bathroom and handing over his electric trimmer, letting Harry cut his hair. This is him adding blue cheese to pasta sauces and taking aubergine out.

This is Harry folding their clothes and putting them away because he knows that Kim hates wrinkles. This is Harry picking up a replacement bottle of the spice they’re missing before Kim even realises they’re running low. This is Harry tucking his gloves into his jacket pocket when he accidentally leaves them somewhere else.

This is Harry introducing himself to Kim’s neighbours when he didn’t have to.

This is Kim letting Harry sleep soundly.

This is Harry making Kim laugh.

This is their dance, pirouetting around the things Kim hasn’t been brave enough to see.

_Is a laugh worth your pride? Is it worth the respect you’ve worked so hard to gain? Twenty years, Kim._

_Is it worth your friendship?_

_You heard what he said about the Pale tonight._

_What if he dies like that, too?_

_What if you let yourself love him and he leaves you all alone?_

_Is it worth the risk?_

Kim doesn’t know.

( _She told me I was trying to make you love me.)_

But he wants to find out.

He slides out of bed, drawn to the door separating them like a moth to flame. When he steps inside the bathroom, though, the door opposite to him opens at the same time, Harry stopping dead in his tracks. 

Kim’s heart thumps hard. 

He’s seen Harry in many states of undress. Mostly at times where the only thing on his mind was getting them dressed and off to work. Some of them were in front of people who definitely would’ve preferred him not to be half naked. And once, it was when he was out of his mind with a concussion and sick with the thought of losing him.

But now, after everything, something has changed in his perception.

It isn’t just his partner with those oddly piercing eyes that have served as windows directly to his heart. It isn’t just his roommate with large, strong hands and a sturdy frame that he uses to help Kim around the house. It isn’t just his friend with that soft lower lip that pulls into a charming smile so effective it’s like it was intended for him.

It’s Harry. 

And Kim knows with certainty that all he wants is to give himself over to him and accept him in return.

Harry shifts his weight, giving him a crooked smile. “Sorry, didn’t know you were still awake.”

“Mm,” is all Kim can trust himself to say. His heart is galloping so hard that his ears are going hot. It’s been so long since he’s allowed himself to feel this way that he has no idea what to do.

Should he tell him outright and see if he feels the same?

He probably shouldn’t just kiss him. Right? Harry only just found out he likes men, too.

Maybe Kim has misread the whole situation. Maybe he misread Harry’s looks and words and he really does have platonic feelings for him.

Should he—

“I couldn’t really sleep, so I was just—uh—” Harry rubs the back of his neck, his cheeks going splotchy red. His eyes dance from Kim over to the bath and then down to the floor.

“I couldn’t sleep, either,” Kim admits, trying to keep himself under control even if he isn’t sure he wants to be. A lock of hair falls across Harry’s cheek and he wants to brush it aside.

“Everything alright?” Harry asks, concern written across his features. 

Kim nods. “I was just thinking about something.”

“All this Pale stuff?”

“A little. But I’m trying not to think about that right now, considering.”

“Is it something personal?” Harry asks quietly, and all he can do is nod. 

Harry hums sympathetically. 

“Must’ve been pretty intense.”

_Do you want to talk about it?_

“You could say that.”

_I do, but I don’t know how to begin._

Harry crooks his head and Kim can almost see the conversation happening inside his head. He wonders what his skills have seen in him. Whether they have noticed the shivery anticipation crackling along his skin. The way he has to hold himself back from closing the distance between them and running his fingertips through Harry’s chest hair just to see if it’s as soft as it looks.

Do they know how much he wants to be seen?

Harry’s brows twitch up.

Kim holds his breath, reflexively licking his lips. 

Harry’s throat bobs in a swallow, his eyes flicking down to Kim’s mouth. 

Goosebumps rise along his skin and he stops thinking, stops hesitating, taking a step forward as he says,

“I was actually coming in here to—”

But Harry is speaking at the same time, their words tangling together. “Do you wanna come back to my room?”

Kim is inundated with the implication in those words, images in his mind of their mouths crashing together as they fall onto the futon, limbs entwined, cocks straining harder with each grind into him, pinning Harry’s hips down just to hear how much he wants him— 

“Shit, I didn’t—that sounded really bad,” Harry says, interrupting his thoughts. 

He blinks, the images freezing in place.

“I just meant, uh. Khm.” Harry’s face grows ever ruddier. “Since neither of us can sleep, we could keep each other company.” He pauses, then winces. “That still sounds bad. I don’t mean—”

“Yes,” Kim says, not even bothering to hide his breathlessness. 

Harry sags with relief, flashing him another smile that feels like stepping into a warm bath. He backs up and Kim follows him to the other room, looking around the space and taking note of the new white curtains that neither afford any real privacy nor keep the light out even when drawn. The futon has been pulled down into a proper bed this time, the missing cushion replaced with one that is mismatched but still fits, somehow. Harry’s clothes have been tossed onto the chair beside the window, his badge hanging dangerously out of his trouser pockets.

Kim doesn’t want to smile at the thought of him losing it again—it’s such a serious offense—but it’s very late and he can’t help it. 

“You can have the bed to yourself if you don’t wanna share,” Harry is saying, reaching down to shove the blanket off to the side.

“Why wouldn’t I want to share your bed?”

Harry looks up at him from where he is bent over, his mouth going slack before he shakes himself out of his stupor. “Well, y’know. Since I kinda just propositioned you.”

“Is that what you were trying to do?” Kim asks, smirking as he sits on the bed. “I couldn’t tell because you didn’t ask if I ‘wanna fuck.’”

Harry splutters, tripping over himself as he climbs into bed, flopping onto his back. “Hey. I was a recent amnesiac when I said that last.”

Kim reclines next to him, folding his hands over his stomach. “So you’re saying you’ve got better than that now?”

Harry grunts. “I don’t know. I might. I haven’t tried.”

“Go ahead, then.”

“Huh?”

Kim gestures for him to continue. “Now that you’re not a recent amnesiac, show me how you’d seduce someone.”

“You want me to seduce you?” Harry asks, obviously dumbstruck.

Kim wonders briefly if he’s pushing this too far, but can’t stop himself from saying, “I want to hear what you and thirty skills can come up with.”

Harry sucks in a breath that sounds involuntary and a shiver rolls through him. Kim waits for a long while before Harry shifts onto his side, props himself up on an elbow, and looks down at him with concentration. Kim can feel the heat from his body as he gives him a single flash of that familiar rictus grin before their eyes meet and the smile softens. Melts into something adoring and gentle while also passionate, eager— _ready_. As though all it would take is a look from Kim to get him aroused. 

A lightning bolt of his own arousal flickers through Kim, heightened by Harry’s eyes trailing slowly, lazily down to his mouth again. His breath catches behind his teeth and he has to clasp his hands hard together to keep them from reaching up and pulling Harry down to him. As much as he asked for it, he doesn’t want him knowing that it’s working. If Harry actually wanted to spend the night with him, he wouldn’t have apologised for the implication.

_Are you sure?_

No. No, he isn’t, but he’s still going to respect that boundary even if it wasn’t intentional. 

Even if it’s taking all his willpower.

Every single scrap of it, especially when Harry murmurs his name, voice rumbling through his chest that rests against his arm.

He has to press his tongue against the roof of his mouth to stop himself from swallowing. “Mm?”

Harry looks up again and Kim watches as his eyes dance across his face before his brows suddenly furrow and he asks, “What’s a prostate?”

Kim usually prides himself on his stoicism in the face of surprise. But in this particular instance, he isn’t sure he could have possibly done anything other than let out a loud snort and roll onto his side, shoving his face into the cushion to muffle his barks of laughter.

Harry’s body is stiff behind him before he flops back down to the bed, groaning.

Kim gathers himself enough to shuffle back around to face him, pressing his fist against his mouth to cull the laughs bubbling up. They still spill out when Harry rolls his head over to look at him with an expression like he’d rather launch himself into the sun than face what he just said.

“Was that—” Kim clears his throat and takes a deep breath to allay the laughing fit. “Was that supposed to be an improvement on your seduction technique?”

“Kim,” is all that Harry says, and it sets him off again.

When he finally settles enough to trust himself to speak, he inhales through his nose and lets it out in a rush, wiping the tears from his cheeks. 

_When was the last time you laughed like that before you met him?_

_Too long. Much too long._

_Don’t let him go._

“I’m sorry. Would you actually like to know or was that just one of your... _check failures_?”

Harry sighs. “Can it be both?”

“No reason to be embarrassed,” he assures, biting back a smile. “It’s not like most sexual education mentions the prostate beyond the need to get it checked for cancer.”

Harry’s eyes go wide. “Is that really something that can happen?”

“Mm.” He nods, shifting onto his back once more and watching as the lights from outside dance along the ceiling. “You’ve probably gotten the examination at some point. Doctors tend to suggest them around our age.”

“Wait, where is this thing, anyway?” He pauses before letting out a loud, disappointed sigh. “I don’t know why I asked that. It’s in the ass, isn’t it?”

“Got it in one, Detective.”

Harry snorts. 

“Why the sudden need to know, anyway?” Kim asks, crossing his ankles and stretching out. The futon isn’t nearly as comfortable as the bed in his room, but there’s something about lying next to Harry that comforts him all the same.

“Oh, it was just—one of my skills mentioned it yesterday.” Harry grunts. “Last night? The day before? I dunno. Time means nothing right now.”

“So your skills know what it is, but haven’t told you?”

“I did say that they’re assholes sometimes.”

“Well, maybe they don’t actually know,” Kim wonders.

There’s a cackle of laughter from the direction of the trucks outside, following directly by a loud swear.

Both of them wait until it falls silent again before continuing. “No,” Harry says, his voice quieter after the reminder that they aren’t at home together. “They definitely knew it was something to do with sex. Something about—positions. And hitting it easier.” Harry suddenly throws up his hands in revelation. “Wait. That sounds like a g-spot.”

“Not much difference in them, really,” Kim confirms. “Sexually speaking.”

Harry makes a little noise of vindication at the back of his throat. “Guess I haven’t forgotten as much as I thought.”

“Some things are like riding a bike, I suppose.”

“So you’re saying I’ve probably had sex with a man before,” Harry says with a chuckle, as though it’s a ridiculous thought.

“Well,” Kim begins slowly. “No reason to rule it out. Would it make a difference if you had?”

“Depends on who it was, I think,” Harry says thoughtfully. “If it was just some guy I partied with, then no. But…”

Kim doesn’t have to wonder very hard to catch the unspoken words in Harry’s hesitation. “You think you and Jean might have had sex.”

“I—I don’t know.”

Kim thinks about the way that Jean looks at Harry, sometimes, as if he’s having to swallow something down just to be around him.

“I can see why you might wonder. There is certainly _something_ between you two.”

Harry’s fingers tap against his bare stomach, making a hollow thump. “It’s not just…”

“Mm?” Kim rolls his head to look over at Harry, who does the same after a moment.

Kim tries his best not to think about how close they are.

“We fought. In the lift.”

Kim’s brows jump up. “Physically?”

“Almost. Kinda. Yeah.” Harry’s brief grimace shifts into a self-effacing laugh. “Jean tried to tackle me but I grabbed him and so we ended up just bumping against the walls. And then just—uh. Hugging?”

“Hugging?”

“Hugging.”

Kim blinks, surprised at the way his heart leaps at the thought. “Did it make you remember hugging him before?”

“Yeah, actually.” Harry’s voice is deep; soft. Nostalgic in a way that Kim has never really heard him sound. “I remembered a lot of little things about him before we fought, though.” He smiles. “I used to call him Mustang.”

“Mustang.” 

“It was supposed to be a joke, I think.”

Kim does his best to nod, considering their positions. “I can see how that fits. But personally I see him more as a—hm.” He casts about for a fitting descriptor before coming up with, “A viper. Deadly bite, overprotective, a little uncompromising.”

“Viper Vic...” Harry breathes out with barely-restrained delight.

“Please don’t call him Viper Vic when we get back.”

“It’s perfect, Kim.”

“You’ll only get him angry again.”

“No, he—he wasn’t angry with me because of the Mustang thing.” His brows crease. “I’m not sure what he felt about it, actually. He looked…”

Kim waits for him to finish, but he clearly becomes lost in his own thoughts. “It can’t have been easy to be forgotten,” he murmurs more to himself than to Harry. It helps to remind himself.

Harry’s eyes focus on him once more. “I forgot everyone, though. No one else took it as bad as he did.”

“No one else was your partner,” Kim points out.

Harry gives him a playful little nudge. “Are you saying that you would be like Jean if I forgot everything again?”

“I—” Kim swallows past the sudden dryness in his throat. “I wouldn’t be happy, no.”

“Because you’re my partner?”

“Because…” 

Kim tries to find the proper words to express how he feels; to sum up what he means to him without just telling him the full truth.

“Because...you’re you, Harry.”

Harry’s eyes dance between both of his before he looks away, frowning lightly.

“What?” Kim asks after several long moments of silence. “Is that so hard to believe?”

Harry shrugs a shoulder and gives him a wry smile. “It was easier to believe as a partner thing.”

Kim frowns. “Why can’t you believe that someone would miss you as a person?”

“Dora wanted to leave _because_ of who I was as a person,” Harry points out, looking back to the lights on the ceiling.

“Do you know that for sure? The people you see in your dreams aren’t necessarily the same.”

“I’m pretty sure. I talked to her on the phone.”

“What?”

“When we were here last time,” Harry says, his voice oddly light. “I dialled numbers at random on the pier and—it was her.”

“Oh, Harry,” Kim sighs, wishing desperately that he could roll over and hold him. 

“I tried to call for you, but you couldn’t hear me.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright. It was probably for the best that you didn’t help me with that. The relationship I had with her was something I had to figure out myself.” He huffs, more air than humour. “‘Cause Volition was right: I put people on pedestals and then I can blame myself for when they get fed up with being treated like that and leave me. It’s just another thing to feed into my depression.”

It takes Kim only a moment to realise that Harry is talking about one of his skills. “You would’ve put me on a pedestal for hanging up the phone on your ex who’s made you black out cold just from an old letter?” He clicks his tongue. “That’s not being heroic. That’s just practical.”

When Harry turns back to him and says with a mouth full of wonder, “You’re so good, Kim,” he feels like the lights have come to live inside his chest.

“You’re so good at being you,” Harry continues. “Even when you’re falling apart. Being around you makes me feel like—like I can be a better person, too. Just because you say so.”

Kim has to press his lips tight together to calm himself before he can say, “It isn’t my belief in you that has gotten you this far, Harry.”

Harry grins. “Of course it is. I’m doing my best to know what the right thing to do is but I still keep messing it up.”

Kim searches his eyes before it hits him. “You’re talking about going to Le Royaume, aren’t you?”

“One of the things I’ve messed up, yeah.”

Kim sighs. “I’m not angry with you about that.”

“What?”

“I’m not angry with you.”

“No, I heard you, I just—”

“I’m frustrated with myself.” Kim takes a shaky breath before continuing, feeling like he’s having to reach inside himself and yank out the words. “I feel like I’ve let you down as a partner.”

“Kim…”

“You knew it wasn’t a good idea to go alone, didn’t you?”

“Well, yeah, but—”

“But you went anyway, because you didn’t want me to go back into the dark.”

Harry looks torn, but doesn’t deny it.

“You wanted to save me the struggle of going back,” Kim says bluntly. “It’s understandable. I felt the same way about you and your apartment. Or talking to Jean. Or this room, even.” He lets out a dry laugh that sounds a bit helpless to his own ears. “But I would have gone back in with you. If you were there with me. Because you were already right beside me, when I needed you most.”

“I’m...I’m your partner, Kim.” Harry’s breath is just as shaky as Kim’s when he speaks, and the air between them changes. Grows warm and electric with potential. 

“And I’m yours.” 

Kim allows himself to bask in that warmth for a few moments more before inhaling slow and saying, “Which is why I’m not angry with you. I know it wasn’t a smart move. Nothing can change the danger. But—”

Kim threads his fingers tight together to stop himself from reaching for Harry’s hand.

“There are so many things that could happen. Our lives are...often short. One way or another, we signed up for the risk of an early death. And if I’ve had any regrets in my service, it’s wasting the time I was given.” 

There is a long silence while Harry studies him. “Did you…?”

“I lost a partner, yes. To drugs.”

Harry winces. “Shit...sorry.”

“It was a long time ago, but…”

They fall quiet again, both of them thinking on that revelation, until Harry swears. Kim raises his brows.

“ _That’s_ why it was hard for you to see Jean like that.”

Kim snorts. “I would wager it was more uncomfortable for Lieutenant Vicquemare than it was for me.”

“Wait,” Harry begins suddenly, “is that also why you said you couldn’t understand what it was like for me to be upset about Dora? Because love is love, Kim.”

“I—what?”

“When you woke me up from that nightmare a few weeks ago, you said that you couldn’t understand what it was like for me, but that it’ll get better.”

“Oh. That.” Kim clears his throat, his ears going hot. “No, I—I said that because I—” A frown pulls at his mouth when he begins to automatically deny his feelings. “I did. Love Dom. But he didn’t love me. And I’m not even sure that what I felt for him _was_ the same kind of love that you felt for Dora. I’m not sure that I can…”

He freezes, his throat closing around the words, but Harry has already caught them.

“Kim,” he says without pity. “You think you can’t love.”

“No. No, I know I can,” he admits, feeling like he’s standing too close to a fire. “But the way I love is very...quiet. I said what I said because back then, I couldn’t imagine falling apart for so long because I lost someone. When Dom died, I was devastated for months. But I had no choice but to pick myself up and move on.” 

Harry’s eyes soften in a way that gets Kim’s heart galloping again. “You said you couldn’t imagine it, _back then_.”

“I think,” Kim murmurs, knowing that if he continues, there will be no way to deny it, “I can imagine it, now.”

Harry’s sigh is at once sudden and heavy with satisfaction, as though something has clicked into place. Both of them draw closer without a word, settling with their sides pressed tight against the other. Kim’s nerves relax at Harry’s touch and they watch the spirals of headlights and darting circles of reflections dance across the ceiling together. It’s a long while before either of them speak, and when he does, Harry’s voice is barely above a whisper.

“It wasn’t even about Dora, really.”

Kim smiles sadly, the edges of his exhaustion softened into something kinder. “I know.”

“I’ve talked to myself a lot these past weeks,” Harry explains without any sadness of his own, despite the fact that Kim knows he was miserable, “and I think that it was probably more about me trying to recapture the energy and passion I had when we were still in love. Trying to be the old me because I tried so hard to be what she wanted that when she was gone, I just didn’t know what to do. Can’t know for sure, obviously, but all the skills agree. The new ones in particular.”

“New ones?” Kim asks curiously.

“They’re— _oh_.”

“What? What’s wrong?”

“No, it’s just,” Harry lets out a tiny laugh. “I just realised why they’re orange.”

It takes Kim a moment for his brain to sort through why that might be before he gets a flash of Harry handing him his handkerchief, the orange embroidery matching the orange swallows that also match his orange jacket.

Something behind his ribcage flutters wildly before calming once more, leaving only the flush along his neck and a slightly deeper voice.

“Khm. They have colours?”

Kim can almost hear the blush spreading along Harry’s cheeks. “Yeah, they—uh. There are groups of six that all feel like—a certain colour or flavour. Blue, purple, red, yellow. And now orange.”

“And the, ah—how did you say it?—two assholes?”

“Those don’t have colours. They’re just...me, I guess.” His voice flattens out. “The parts of me I don’t want to see, at least.”

Kim can understand that, well enough. “So you didn’t always have the orange ones?”

“No.” Harry hums deep in his chest. “Those showed up after Martinaise. I think...they’re my spirit. The parts of me that make me more than just a body.”

“And they’re…”

Kim doesn’t have to look at Harry to hear the smile in his voice. “I told you. You make me want to be a better man for you, Kim.” He pauses for a moment, clearly listening to his own thoughts. “Not a different man. I did that before. I changed who I was for Dora. But I don’t want to do to anyone else what I did to her. What I did to Jean. That’s why I’m going to start the Serotrine. I don’t want to drag anyone else down with me anymore. I’m tired of my own brain making me feel like dead weight.”

“You’re not dead weight. And Jean is not a lost cause, Harry. He’s trying just the same as you.”

“I know. I wish I could help him.”

Kim sighs, closing his eyes and letting the memory of the lights dance on his eyelids, instead.

“Who knows? Maybe he’ll let you, now.”

“Sure, and Pryce will just let me quit the force and Mack will stop eating at that takeaway that gives everyone food poisoning and pigs will sail through the sky and—”

“I get your point.”

“I hurt him. I’m just glad he’s putting up with me.”

“I think he might surprise you.”

Harry’s laugh comes so soft that Kim can barely hear it.

“Almost everything does.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: the Jamrock Shuffle.
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/TellCosy)/[tumblr](https://tellcosy.tumblr.com)


	9. Joie de Vivre Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kim learns about the Jamrock Shuffle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! Just a fun little chapter before the plot kicks in properly! :D Enjoy!

  
  


On the Day of Her First Breath, Kim wakes to the smell of bacon and knows that it will be a terrible day.

It isn’t the bacon itself. For the past three weeks since they’d fallen asleep together in Martinaise, Harry has been getting up earlier than him to make breakfast. Usually something heavy and dense with either fat or carbs, but Kim isn’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth. He just eats less of it to avoid his early morning nausea. Harry doesn’t mind; he just seems happy enough that Kim likes his cooking.

And Kim is happy to get an extra ten minutes in bed every morning.

No, the reason why the bacon gets him rolling over and sighing heavily through his nose is that Harry only ever makes bacon for breakfast when he makes croissants, too.

And he only makes croissants on their days off.

Which means that Wing C drew the lot to get off the first day of the eight-day-long holiday originally intended to honour Dolores Dei’s discovery of Le Caillou, but that in modern times is a celebration of Revachol herself.

Which means he will have to suffer through the “bonding experience” of going out to whatever dive that the sergeants choose that night.

Memories bubble to the surface of being forced to listen as his fellow lieutenants at the 57th go on drunken rants that started with relatively harmless stuff but quickly turned misogynist, racist, homophobic, classist—anything just to get a rise out of people.

Him most of all.

But he’s been working with the people at 41 for almost two months now and they’ve treated him with respect, if not camaraderie. He’s heard plenty of off-colour jokes as he passes through the other wings, but Wing C certainly keeps it quieter when he’s around, if they’re telling them. 

He doesn’t particularly care if he becomes friends with his other coworkers anyway. In the weeks since the blowout between Jean and Harry, the four of them have worked tirelessly together over the sleeping deaths. Kim has often come back from liaising with another wing to find Jean and Harry and Judit with their heads together, throwing out ideas that range from complex entroponetics to ‘someone’s jacking into the Pale and using it to send out subliminal messages to those already at risk.’ 

He knows it’s inappropriate and overly prideful to feel like he played a part in bringing them back to this, but he can’t help it. When he sees Harry flash that gap-toothed smile at Jean and watches as the younger man tries to shrug it off but can’t hide the flush at the back of his neck, it feels like a job well done. 

And when rough patches arise in the newly-exhumed path back to their friendship—more?—Kim is there to smooth it out. He knows how difficult it can be to see the forest for the trees when misunderstandings happen between two people who feel very strongly about everything. Jean and Harry are especially volatile when butting heads, as though they feed off the other’s mood. But when he pulls them back and lets them cool off, they always work it out themselves afterwards. 

Those rough patches have gotten fewer and farther between each one as both of them actually try to see from the other’s perspective, though. Kim feels a bit like he’s getting to see the duo who worked together to create a task force for Jamrock’s beleaguered citizens. The Harry who still had confidence in himself and his abilities. The Jean who still had energy and the trust to stand beside him.

And together, they feel like an unstoppable force.

Which is for the best, as the Inter-Isolary Health Board has begun to catch wind of the slew of deaths plaguing Revachol. As the numbers rise across the river, so does the pressure on their captains to put a name and a face to this in order to avoid the Moralintern’s hand reaching across the Pale to enact drastic, but ultimately useless measures.

Whether or not Kim used to believe in Moralism and its self-appointed high ground, he isn’t naïve enough to believe that they would take care of Revachol West in any of their plans.

Frankly, he isn’t sure they aren’t planning something for the anniversary of the takeover, anyway. 

Harry certainly seems to believe they are. Or that Pryce has something planned. He isn’t sure even Harry knows which it is; just that something is being planned in secret.

He doesn’t like it. 

But whether or not he likes it, what will happen will happen in eight days. And so he will spend his government-appointed holiday as is traditional for him: being stressed about all the things he should be doing instead of not working.

At least he’ll get croissants out of the ordeal.

Croissants and the chance to spend a little more time in the shower to work out some of the built-up tension in him. 

He sighs, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand before sliding out of bed and straight through to the bathroom, touching the doorjambs to be sure he’s stepping in the right place. He can hear Harry huffing in the living room—most likely doing his early morning exercises that he’d started a few weeks ago. Kim has been doing his best not to interrupt him, for both their sakes. He wants Harry to feel like he has a place he can exercise without being ogled and Kim doesn’t want to put any more strain on his own willpower than he already has.

Having to live and work with the knowledge that he’s in love with Harry but would rather allow him the space to figure out what he feels for both Jean and him has been hell on his libido. He much prefers addressing issues straightforward once he’s decided to address them, but some things are better off given time. Harry and Jean’s relationship—no matter if platonic or reawakened romance from before the amnesia—is still very tentative. He doesn’t want to be the reason for it failing due to a misunderstanding.

Even if Jean keeps sneaking those same shy, curious looks over at him when he thinks he isn’t paying attention. Even if Harry finds any excuse to touch Kim, be close to him, say things that get his heart pounding. Even if Jean’s breath catches whenever Harry stands so close to him that he’s only barely not touching. 

Even if it feels like the three of them are headed for something together, Kim cannot bring himself to be the one who guides it. He wants it— 

_God, do you want it._

—but if he’s going to try a relationship with Harry, it has to be one built on trust and communication. It’s the only way he can be sure that he means for it to last.

So he takes a little extra time in the shower when he can and imagines what it could be like, instead. It might make his heart ache after, when all that’s left is shaking legs and his face pressed into his arm against the shower tiles, but at least it helps a little.

It has to be enough.

“Kim…” Harry calls out in a sing-song voice from behind the bathroom door. “Guess who gets to have the first day off of the holiday?”

Kim wraps a towel around himself, not bothering to dry off before opening the door. It has still been a little chilly at night, but overall, spring has warmed the bones of the city enough to not need the heating on. It doesn’t stop him from shivering when the hallway air hits his bare chest, but he isn’t planning on staying undressed for long. He raises his brows at the Harry-shaped blob standing in front of him.

“Considering I can smell bacon, I don’t really need to guess.”

“C’mon, why the long face, huh? We haven’t had a day off in forever,” Harry wheedles good-naturedly, taking him by the shoulder and giving him a little jostle. 

“I do not have a long face,” he grumbles, ignoring the way his hand itches to go to Harry’s waist. “I just don’t have anything planned.”

“You mean you’re planning on doing work instead of going out with everyone.”

Kim lets out a long sigh.

“I don’t believe you, Kim. You can’t just bail on everyone. They’ll miss you.”

“You mean _you’ll_ miss me,” he jabs, blinking away the droplet of water that falls from his hair.

And then freezes, unable to breathe as Harry cups his face loosely, wiping the droplet from his cheekbone with the pad of his thumb. 

“You know I would,” he murmurs softly, and Kim is suddenly very grateful that he can’t make out most of his face.

_Breathe. You promised yourself you wouldn’t do anything rash._

He won’t. As difficult as it is to turn away from Harry and shake off the heat of his hand, he still manages it, tipping his glasses onto his face and wringing some of the water from his hair.

And his hands only shake a tiny bit. 

“Khm. I never said I wouldn’t go, anyway,” he says, taking his clothes down from the wardrobe. 

“You also never say you _would_ ,” Harry counters, standing to the side of the bedroom door to give Kim some privacy. “What’s the problem with having a little fun?” He pauses for a moment before asking, “Is it because you think _I_ shouldn’t go? To a bar, I mean.”

“No,” Kim says plainly, stepping into his underwear and towelling his hair.

“Because you know I won’t drink, Kim. I don’t care if I’m a loser for not drinking when everyone else is. They already think I’m pathetic anyway.”

“I know you won’t. That’s not why I don’t want to go.”

“So you really _don’t_ want to!”

“I just have bad experiences with these sorts of things. It isn’t a big deal. I’m still going to go.”

“What kind of experiences?”

Kim looks over his shoulder as he steps into his jeans. “Do you really need to ask that, Harry?”

Harry glances back at him and turns around when he sees that he’s half-decent. His forehead is pinched. “I guess not. I just don’t want you to do something you don’t really want to do.”

“I often have to do things I don’t want to,” he mumbles, tugging his shirt over his head and tucking it in. “That’s just life. It won’t kill me.”

“No, but if you’re going to be miserable...” 

When he turns to grab his cardigan, he finally notices the smile tugging at Harry’s mouth as he watches him. “What?”

“Nothing,” Harry says, crossing his arms and leaning against the doorjamb. “You just look nice with your hair down. I don’t often get to see it like that.”

“Because it makes me look like a little boy,” Kim says, shoving his hands into his cardigan instead of smoothing his hair back self-consciously.

“You may not look your age, but I don’t think anyone’s gonna mistake you for a kid, Kim.”

“Pah. I look exactly my age when I dress as I should,” he says, sliding past Harry into the bathroom again. He hangs his towel over the radiator and stands in front of the mirror, reaching for the pomade.

Harry touches his fingertips to his elbow, locking eyes with him through the mirror and giving him a lopsided grin. “Want some help?”

Kim lets out a slow exhale, trying to hold back a smile. “There is finesse required to style hair. It isn’t like using the trimmer.”

“Please,” Harry says with a dismissive blurt. “Give me _some_ credit. I’ve seen you put it on a hundred times.”

“Mm,” is all he says in response, though he lets his arm fall back to his side. Harry leans in beside him to pick up the jar of pomade and Kim has to tuck his hand into his pocket to stop himself once again from touching Harry. Out of all the difficulties he’s had in the last few weeks, his body has protested the most over not being able to place his hand on the small of Harry’s back, just to see if he would turn towards him. He doesn’t know why, of all places, that is what he has fixated on, but all he can do is cope with it.

_There shouldn’t be any reason why you can’t touch him. You’ve touched him platonically plenty of times. Why does this have to be different?_

Because it is. Because if Kim flattens his palm against Harry’s back, his arm is going to pull him flush against his body and lift his chin for a kiss. He’s going to want more.

_You aren’t exactly new at denying yourself things that you want, though, are you?_

Harry isn’t a second cigarette or a new coat of paint for the Kineema. He’s…

_A living, moving whirlwind. An event you cannot hope to predict._

_You are both better together._

_He’s dangerous._

“Alright, just turn around a little bit?” Harry mumbles, nudging his arm with a wrist, his pomade-laden fingers held away from Kim’s clothes. “Can’t really do this from the side.”

Kim hesitates, staring at Harry in the mirror. He’s still wearing his workout clothes: the sweatpants that Kim let him borrow when he first moved in and one of his old vests that barely fits his wide chest. There’s absolutely nothing inherently erotic about them, but Kim knows that if he’s standing close to him, face-to-face, with nothing to distract him, he’s going to think too much about how it feels for Harry to be wearing his clothes.

“C’mon, I promise I won’t mess it up.”

Harry smiles cheekily at him through the mirror and Kim knows that he’s going to give in one way or another. He shifts them around so he can sit against the sink counter, letting Harry scooch closer between his knees.

_Remember what this is._

_Or take your chance. What’s the harm? You know Harry wants you, too. You can see it in his eyes. He_ melts _around you. He’d take you again and again—every day of your lives. He wants this, too._

Kim has seen the looks. He knows what they mean. But what he _doesn’t_ know is whether Harry has intended to give him those looks. Or whether he wants to do anything about them. Or whether he would rather give those looks to Jean. Or both of them. Or— 

“Kim, I know I’m not exactly Miss Page Three,” Harry says with a laugh and raised brows, “but you could at least attempt to look up here so I can get your hair right.”

Kim blinks, realising that he has had his chin tucked into his chest. He sits up a little straighter, meeting Harry’s eyes. He is painfully aware of where his calves touch Harry’s. 

_Every time he looks in your eyes, he can see how much you love him._

Kim doubts that very much. He may have guessed that Kim wants to be physical with him, but he’s never been good at showing anyone how much he cares. He doesn’t know how to make grand gestures, and a man like Harry lives for grand gestures. Nothing about him is quiet.

_Don’t assume he feels the same way about you that he felt for Dora. Every love is different._

Harry warms the pomade between his palms, saying nothing before ever-so-gently combing his fingers through Kim’s hair.

Kim has to repress a shiver at the tenderness of his touch. The last time he allowed anyone to do this for him, he was still young and full of hope. He can still remember the hurried, possessive way his boyfriend had worked in the product, as though he’d rather have left his hair a mess so everyone would know what they’d done that morning. 

Harry goes slow. 

Methodical. 

Careful.

His eyes flick between his own hands and Kim’s face when he accidentally tugs on a knot, checking if he’s hurt him. 

When Harry catches his gaze again one of those times, he smiles.

Kim’s breaths radiate heat through him, steady and powerful.

“See, it’s not so bad, huh?”

Kim has to swallow past the tight lump in his throat to even go, “Mm?”

“Looking at my ugly mug.”

Kim searches Harry’s face for any sign that he’s just joking, but the smile is a little sad and he won’t meet his eyes anymore.

“Whoever said you’re ugly?” 

Harry chuckles. “The mirror? Children on the street?” He pauses, and the humour in his voice cracks a little. “You?”

“What?”

“Back on our first case.” He hums, watching his hands as he smooths down a stray hair. “You said I look 58.”

“Harry, you _know_ how bad I am at gauging age.”

“And then when I shaved, thinking it might help me feel like I was getting a fresh start, you told me that you preferred me with the chops because it covered the—” he gestures vaguely to his face, letting out a few more laughs that do little to hide how much that must have hurt.

“That’s not what I meant,” Kim says automatically, heart constricting painfully. He makes a noise of frustration in the back of his throat. “I didn’t know how to say that it was harder to see you without them because it made your—sadness—more real. It was uncomfortable to see _that_ , not _you_ , because I wanted to make you feel better somehow.” He clenches the edge of the sink tight. “But whether or not I meant it, I still shouldn’t have said it. It was stupid.”

Harry blinks, his hand still cradling the back of Kim’s head. “So you…?”

“Of _course_ you’re handsome.”

Kim can feel the way Harry’s hand stiffens against him, his legs shifting forward, the shaky exhale that cools the pomade drying in his hair. “Even though I’m not in shape?”

“That has absolutely no bearing on it.”

Harry’s mouth curls up and he leans in further. “Even if I still look like I’m a 58-year-old alcoholic?”

It takes all Kim’s willpower to stay perfectly still. “It’s because of who you are, Harry. You’ll always be handsome.”

Harry’s lids squeeze shut before he inhales slowly and gazes down at him again, a world of emotions hiding just behind those grey-green eyes. “Kim…” 

But before either of them can do more than edge a little closer, the radio in the living room chimes the notice alarm just as the timer goes off in the kitchen.

“Fuck.”

“No, apparently not,” Harry sighs, leaning back, wiping his hands on the towel, and giving him an apologetic look before shuffling off in a light jog to answer the radio. 

Kim looks up to the ceiling and reminds himself that it would be poor conduct to throw the police radio out of the window. When he hears Harry respond to Jules’s call, he sighs as well and stands up, heading to the kitchen to take the food out of the oven. He peers down at the croissants that are just a little bit burnt, thinking of what might have happened if it weren’t for breakfast and the RCM’s tendency to ignore days off.

“Hey, Kim!”

Kim leans around the kitchen wall and raises his brows tiredly.

Harry grins. “Don’t worry; it isn’t work. Jules just wants to know if we’re going to come get beignets.”

He blinks. “Beignets?”

“Yeah, they’re a type of pastry—”

“I meant: why are there beignets to be gotten?”

“Oh, right! Uh.”

“Harry,” Jules’s voice crackles through the radio. “Harry, are you still there?”

Kim moves over to the shelf that the radio rests on, holding his hand out for the receiver. Harry hands it over to him without question, trading places with him. “Jules, this is Lieutenant Kitsuragi.” He pauses for a half of a second before adding, “Ah. Kim.”

“Good morning, Lieu—Kim.” Jules clears his throat. “We’ve got the beginnings of the annual potluck started in Wing C and I’ve been requested to remind you of it.”

“Potluck?”

Kim looks at Harry with amusement. “You know what a beignet is but not a potluck?”

“Gourmand is having a meltdown over them.”

“How you ever ended up with a skill called Gourmand is beyond me. I’ve seen you eat cheese off the floor.”

“Wasting cheese is a crime, Kim. I know this because I am a police.”

“Officers?”

“Sorry, Jules,” Kim says into the receiver while still shaking his head at Harry. “Harry seems to have forgotten what a potluck entails.”

“Everyone brings food and eats it.”

Harry’s eyes go wide at Jules’s concise explanation. “A buffet?”

“Sort of,” Kim says before turning back to the receiver. “What is everyone bringing?”

“Ah...quite a lot, it seems. Butter chicken, topping pie, paella, dumplings, pide...apparently five vegetable plates. At least two cheese plates.”

“Coffee?” Harry asks hopefully.

“No, Jean will be bringing coffee,” Kim says decisively. 

“You think Jean is not only going to something like this, but sharing his coffee?”

“Jules, is Jean already there?”

“Jean is already here.”

Kim just looks over at Harry, who scoffs and crosses his arms.

“Fine! Then—then—uh—cake? To...go with the coffee?”

“Has anyone promised to bring cake?” Kim asks Jules.

“Not yet. Should I put you down for it?”

Kim raises his brows at Harry, who nods enthusiastically.

“Go ahead,” he says to Jules. “We’ll be there in about an hour. Please save a few beignets for us if you can.”

“Got it. See you then, Lieutenants. Over and out.”

Kim clips the receiver back to the radio, suddenly glad that he was planning on going into work anyway. He hates feeling rushed.

“Kim, why’d you say we’d be there in an hour? It’ll take longer than that just to make the cake!” Harry argues, shedding his vest and attempting to toss it into the hamper. 

It falls onto the floor. Harry just groans and goes to the bedroom to get dressed, followed by the sound of Kim’s huffs of laughter.

“Because I’m not intending to make the cake, of course,” he says loud enough to carry into the bedroom. He puts the bacon and croissants away into the fridge and collects his gloves from his jacket, sliding them on.

“You mean we just lied to Jules? That’s rude, Kim. I expected better from you.”

“I didn’t say we would make the cake, did I? We can just go buy one.”

“Ooh, that’s a great idea, actually,” Harry exclaims, suddenly enthusiastic. “I know a good patisserie that should definitely be across the river but the owner gives away whatever’s left at the end of the day. A real comrade.”

Kim turns to see Harry tying his hair up, dressed in a bottle-green turtleneck and tabac-coloured trousers. He tries not to look, but his eyes are drawn to the swell of his arm beneath the thin material, the greying streaks in his hair, the healthy colour to his cheeks. The way he stands taller now, as if he’s no longer crushed down under the boot of his own thoughts. Still carrying that weight, but stronger now. 

There was always something about Harry, even when they first shook hands, that drew Kim’s eye. But back then, he’d had to look for why, exactly, he couldn’t stop himself from watching Harry. Why he’d wanted to spend more time with him even if it meant their case would take longer. 

There’s no question in his mind, now. It’s right there to be seen by anyone who cares to look.

Kim wonders if everyone else has seen it in him: the depth of his attraction to Harry. His affection for him. He feels like he must be wearing a sign around his neck announcing it to the world every time he smiles at him, but perhaps that’s just his bias. 

He doesn’t know that he would care anymore.

_You would care. You’re too vain to not care what others think of you._

That’s true enough, he supposes. But there’s a difference between caring and acting on it. He thinks he would probably be worried about what his coworkers might say, but he doesn’t think he would _do_ anything about that worry. 

Half of them already joke about Kim and Harry being a married couple, anyway.

He isn’t sure it would surprise anyone if they were to actually become a couple.

_You’re getting ahead of yourself. Making stock before you’ve even caught the fish._

It doesn’t matter if he never ‘catches the fish’, though. Planning for any eventuality gives him a sense of— 

_Control. You want to be in control._

—a sense of _stability_.

 _That means the same thing_.

Kim doesn’t need to be in control for him to feel prepared. He just plans for the eventualities where he’s not in control, as well. 

He plans for what he’ll do if Harry wants only a physical relationship with him—doesn’t want any relationship other than work—wants to be partners in life, too—

He plans for what he’ll do if Harry tells him he’s in love with Jean and not Kim.

He plans for what he’ll do if Harry wants to be with both of them.

He runs through the possibilities like films in his head, and even then, he still doesn’t know if it’s enough.

Harry has a way of surprising him.

Which, when he thinks on it as they drive down to Harry’s patisserie and buy not just a coffee cake to go with Jean’s coffee, but an enormous chocolate torte that Harry swears will be a hit and hasn’t been bought only so he can eat it later himself, may be the reason he is so nervous about the work outing that night.

Why he is tense all through the day despite the jovial mood in the office. He spends most of it just sorting through his notes, eating with Trant and Jean, and helping Harry finish up some tasks he left in the archives, and yet still he feels the build of nerves.

Until the moment they cross the road into Boogie Street North and Kim catches his first real glimpse of what the Breaths can be like.

The celebrations that run from Boogie Street proper spill haphazardly north, like a new tributary of the River Esperance. People are busy unlocking old warehouses and department stores and throwing the doors wide open, surging inside to use the space for their parties and food stalls. Kim has never been a big fan of crowds, but there’s an energy in the air that buzzes and snaps with excitement. Twinkling lights have been hung high up on the buildings, flashing like fireflies in the cool, late-spring dusk. Someone is setting off fireworks a few streets down and the bangs get everyone jumping before the coloured gas glitters in the sky. Smells of baking bread and spiced meat and taffy dig up old memories from far below his foundation, rooting them out like long-forgotten time capsules. 

He can remember walking through a crowd like this from much further down, an enormous hand holding tight to his, his eyes wide and lovingly glued to the pleasure wheel towering in front of him.

He can remember the swing of the gondola at the peak of the wheel. Staring out in the inky black of night and seeing all of Revachol, all of Le Caillou, the whole of Elysium, and feeling like it was a present just for him to discover.

He can’t remember when he made the memory, but it feels precious. Old. 

He stares off into the distance, steeped in the past, as the joy and love of Revachol pollinates the streets around him, creating life with laughter and song.

It sounds like hope.

“Do you know the song they’re all singing?”

Kim blinks at the sound of Trant’s voice, realising that he and Harry and Jean are walking beside him, and clears his throat.

“Ah. Is it just one song that they’re singing? It sounds like a few different ones. I recognise...some of it. The Fisherman’s Folly.” He watches a group of kids go skating past, every last one of them smoking cannabis. “We used to sing it to skip rope.”

“Oh, you must’ve grown up at Her Innocence’s Grace,” Jean states without question. Kim raises his eyebrows and he grunts. “Did some time there, too. When I was a little older. Saw the kids doing the same thing.”

“It’s a surprisingly good song for it,” Kim remarks by way of confirmation. He’s a little impressed that the tradition continued for so long after he aged out of the orphanage; it seemed, at the time, to be something unique to them. Maybe it never was. “So you grew up there, too?”

“What’s Her Innocence’s Grace?”

Jean glances over at Harry, but Trant is the one to answer. “A group of cottages originally built by the seaside to house the miners’ families, then repurposed into a collective orphanage after the war. It’s known for being the largest war orphanage in Revachol.” He sighs. “And the one with the most...problems.”

Harry frowns, absently ruffling his beard with his fingertips. “Did I not grow up there, too? I’m an orphan.”

“Revachol has a lot of orphans,” Jean says bitterly, taking out a pack of cigarettes from his jacket and popping one between his lips. When he pats all his pockets and comes up short, Kim gives him a little grin and produces his lighter for him, cupping his hand around the flame to protect it. Jean gives a short hum of thanks, leaning in and lighting the tip cherry-red. He flicks the lid shut over the flame as soon as Jean leans back, his cheeks hollowing around the filter. 

When he breathes out the smoke, he says, “You never told me where you grew up. You made sure we all knew that you didn’t give a shit about the past. ‘The past and the future are dead. Today is all we have.’ You’d say that shit all the time. Always thought you were just trying to make up excuses so you didn’t have to apologise for anything.” His forehead crinkles. “Fuck, though—who knows? Maybe the future really is dead.”

“Maybe. Or maybe I was just out of my mind on speed,” Harry points out, earning himself a snort from Jean.

“Who isn’t?”

“A cheerful thought for the first day of celebration,” Trant says, though he still smiles. 

“Ah, who gives a shit about the Breaths anyway,” Jean grumbles. “It’s not like anyone cares about Dolores Dei anymore.”

“Jean, are you suggesting you aren’t looking forward to the team-building opportunity that this day affords?” Trant asks playfully.

“ _Bof_.”

The sullen response gets Kim’s lips pulling into a smile and as they follow everyone into the spot decided upon earlier—an old warehouse with the space for barrels of alcohol and a pop-up kitchen underneath what looks to be the old foreman’s office, now hijacked by a tape jockey for the tannoy system—he raises a brow at Jean and asks, “Since neither of us are interested, why don’t we get out of here? Go back to the office. We’ll have it all to ourselves right now.”

Harry gives him a look of performative outrage, pressing his hand to his chest. “I’m _right here_ , Kim.”

“I never said you weren’t invited.”

As Harry chuckles, Kim watches Jean’s cheeks quickly flush red before he looks away, tucking his face against his cigarette once more.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” Judit says, sliding up beside them with a drink in her hand as they mill about in the crowd waiting to be served at the makeshift bar. “I see you made it through the streets without getting molested too badly.”

“Someone did throw some trotters at us and make oinking noises,” Harry tells her, his voice a mixture of pride and sadness. “What a waste of good food.”

“Actually, the meat had already been taken off, so I don’t think there was any waste,” Trant says to Harry. “It was probably being used as a stew base.”

“You can _do_ that?” 

“While I just _adore_ talking about severed pig’s feet and their many uses,” Jean drawls, “I’m going to go see if this condemned building even has bathrooms or if I’ll have to hold it until I explode.”

Judit watches him go, looking baffled, before turning back to the three of them. “How did I already say something to piss him off?”

“He’s not pissed off. He’s _embarrassed_. And you didn’t say anything,” Harry reassures her. “ _Kim_ did.”

“Kim?”

Kim just clears his throat and mumbles, “I’ll just go get us some drinks, shall I?”

“I’ll help carry them,” Harry offers. “What d’you want, Trant? Old Fashioned? Soda and rye?”

“If you don’t mind.”

“Could you grab me a refill, actually?” Judit asks, downing the rest of her wine and handing Harry the empty glass, who gives her a little salute in response. “Cheers, Harry.”

“ _Pas de quoi_.”

“Do we already have a place to sit?” Kim asks Judit, who nods and points over to a corner where there’s a circle of tables and chairs all orbiting around a space in the middle with two sofas and a coffee table. When they agree to meet there, her and Trant wander over through the crowd, laughing over something one of them said. Kim glances over at Harry as they join the queue for the bar, holding his hand out for the glass.

When he grins and tips it over for him, Kim steps a little closer to ask quietly, “Are you alright?”

“Huh? Why?” He inspects the front of himself as if he expects to find something out of place.

“Being around all this again,” Kim explains, gesturing with the glass to the crowd and bar. “It’s a lot different than saying no to a drink at home.”

Harry follows his line of sight and takes in the atmosphere around them before regarding him again, brows furrowed. Kim appreciates that he’s giving it a little thought before answering; it means he’s taking the question seriously. It gives Kim a better peace of mind that he’ll actually be telling the truth.

“It is a lot different, but—” He frowns deeper, looking over at the group of their coworkers all discussing something enthusiastically. “I think it’s easier, actually.”

Kim hums. “More to do?”

“Yeah, something like that. But I think it’s not just having _more_ —because when we get really busy at work, sometimes I daydream about drinking until I forget it all again.” 

“Hah, who doesn’t, buddy!” says the tipsy man right beside them, slapping Harry hard on the back and knocking him into Kim. “Oop, sorry pal.”

“No harm done,” Kim mumbles, hyper-aware of Harry’s hand steadying him at the small of his back as the man turns back to the bar.

“What I was trying to say was,” Harry says, his palm pressing lightly into Kim’s back before he lets it drop to his side, “this is better. I’m actually—happy. Being here. Everyone’s excited and enjoying themselves. It’s different than the places I can remember.” A wistful grin settles over his face as he looks up at the ceiling. “Dirtier, actually. But better.”

Kim turns his eyes to the cobwebs and visible spots of mould and rust and shivers, a strangely affectionate warmth building behind his sternum at the sight. This place really should have been condemned a long time ago, but here it is. Still standing and now—now it’s being used for something more than just offices or a warehouse or yet another failed housing development.

Something better.

“Old Fashioned, please,” Harry’s voice interrupts his thoughts. “Soda and rye. Glass of red wine. A pint of whatever soft drink you have, please. And, uh—” 

It takes Kim a second to realise that Harry’s looking to him for what his order is and he hurries to say, “Tonic. Please. With lime.”

As the man behind the makeshift bar nods and swipes his pencil behind his ear after taking notes, Harry and Kim step aside to let the next people up to order. Harry gives him a tiny grimace and asks, “Tonic? Just tonic? You didn’t have to sacrifice yourself just for me, Kim.”

“I happen to find tonic tastes quite nice on its own with a bit of lime,” he says primly.

Harry’s grimace just deepens.

“I’m not ‘sacrificing myself,’ Harry,” he assures him. “I didn’t want to come out tonight anyway, and I especially don’t feel comfortable having a drink in this situation.”

“Why not?”

Kim clicks his tongue softly. “Beyond the large crowds and the fact that my captain may show up at any time?”

“You think Pryce would care?” Harry asks, scooting closer to the counter as their drinks get lined up for them one by one. “You do know that he’s my captain too, right? He’s seen it all by now.”

“And so have I,” Kim says, reaching over to take the wine and his tonic. “But whether or not it would surprise him doesn’t even figure into it.”

Harry studies him for a moment, taking a sip of his drink while they wait for the Old Fashioned. When he raises a brow back at him, he grins. “So there’s stuff you’ve done with me that you wouldn’t do with other people.”

“Yes?” he asks, as if to say, _Of course._

“So,” Harry says slowly, leaning in conspiratorially. “I know a secret of yours, then.”

Kim rolls his eyes, but his lips still twitch towards a smile. “Yes, Harry. We live together and _that’s_ the secret.”

“Never said I didn’t have other secrets of yours, too,” Harry says without missing a beat, giving Kim a lightning-quick wink before taking the freshly-prepared drink and heading towards the corner where Wing C waits for them. 

Kim doesn’t know why, of all things, that is what makes the tips of his ears hot, but he does his best to just suppress it, catching up after a second. Luckily, the closer they get to the corner, the thinner and quieter the crowd gets, and Kim feels himself relax just an inch.

“...and the thing is, I would even mind it if they could _do_ the Shuffle, but what they’re doing is some kind of middle class milquetoast bastard’s version of it and I wanna cite them a fine then and there when I see it happening.”

Kim’s ears perk up as Prue’s voice drifts over to them and by the way Harry looks up from checking the drinks haven’t spilled, he knows he hears it too. 

“I don’t give a shit if they wanna take it,” Chester says, leering over at Prue, “‘cause they always have their asses hanging out of those miniskirts when they’re doing it.”

Mack and a few other patrol officers snicker lecherously while Prue just narrows her eyes. 

“Who do you think I am, Chester?” she says, shaking her head slowly. “You think I won’t ring you out like a dirty dish towel?”

“What? C’mon,” he whinges, “I was just jokin’ around.”

“You’re the damn joke.”

“Everyone having fun over here?” Harry says loudly over the sound of Chester and Mack’s complaints, handing over the ordered drinks to Trant and Judit.

“Buckets of it,” Judit says, immediately swallowing a mouthful of wine.

“Were you discussing the Jamrock Shuffle?” Kim asks, settling into one of the repurposed office chairs brought into the main hall from another floor. The bucket of it is cold and slightly moist with condensation; the heat of everyone crowded into the warehouse mixes poorly with the damp inside its bones.

“Not really discussing it,” King says, leaning back in the beat-up office sofa he shares with Prue and Judit and Trant and flicking a nut into the air to catch it with his mouth. “More of a critical analysis.”

“They’re just dogshit at it, King,” Prue sighs. “No analysis needed.”

“I wasn’t aware that anyone actually knew about it here,” Kim says curiously, crossing his ankle over his knee and taking a sip of his tonic. “Harry certainly didn’t.”

“Again, the amnesia—”

“Oh my _god_ , are you trying to use that as an excuse for something again?” Jean’s voice calls out from behind them. Kim glances over to see Harry smile at Jean, who smirks back as he flops into the couch across from the other, shoving everyone else down without apology. 

“No, I’m trying to—” Harry flips Jean off. 

“Oh, that’s very funny. Almost as funny as—” Jean flips him off as well.

“No, no, listen, I’ve got a really funny joke just in here, lemme just,” Harry lifts his hips to root around in his back pocket before flipping Jean off again, looking down at it with surprise and then flipping him off with the other hand. “Oh, look! Turns out I had _two_ jokes in the barrel.”

Kim gives a long, nasal sigh, and in return he gets a cheeky grin from Harry and a red-tinged, apologetic look from Jean. 

“Thank you, Kim,” Judit says dully. “I’ve seen that go on for days before.”

“They do get very creative with it,” Trant says from the other side of Judit.

“Only last time they threw stuff too,” Mack says, taking a huge swig of beer and belching. “Typical couple.”

“I’m not sure I would say that’s what is _typical_ of couples,” Trant points out. “My marriage was amicable enough.”

“Until you divorced,” Jean says bluntly.

“Well, yes, but that was amicable, too,” Trant chuckles. “Clarice even has Mikael tonight.”

“A true superhero of a mother.”

“I’m not talkin’ about _married couples_ , anyway,” Mack snaps, as though the suggestion of marriage insults him deeply.

“Married or not, you think that’s normal?” King asks indignantly. 

“You ever answer a domestic call that wasn’t about some bitch throwing plates at her cheating husband and his mistress?” Chester chimes in with, pointing at the circle of them with the bottom of his pint glass.

“I thought this wasn’t about married couples,” Harry says.

“Once had a domestic call about a guy that shit in his wife’s pie and served it to her parents,” Prue says, grinning at the memory.

“Once had a girl who thought her boyfriend had killed her dog but it’d been pregnant and was having its babies,” Judit adds.

“Fine, whatever, but you know what I mean,” Mack grouses. “They fought a lot. Couple shit.”

“God, I feel sorry for your exes,” Jean says with mild disgust.

“I’ve done better than some of you, at least.”

“Can we please get off the topic of exes?” Judit requests suddenly.

“I wasn’t talking about you or anything,” Mack hurries to explain, “I was just—”

“She didn’t think you were. She was just trying to spare me.” Even though Harry’s voice is friendly enough, a sour, embarrassed energy falls over the group. 

There is only silence except for the sound of people taking long drinks.

Kim sighs under his breath, taking a sip of his tonic before saying,

“One time I was called in under the pretense of stopping a domestic violence dispute, but when I got there, it was a man who had gotten his penis stuck inside the exhaust of a forklift.”

Judit is the first one to go from stunned silence to snorting into her drink, making a high-pitched noise in the back of her throat when she inhales a bit of wine and has to cough it out. Prue gives her a few hard thumps to the back and Jean watches with concern as everyone else snickers.

“Weren’t we talking about _couples_?” King asks through his rapid-fire giggles.

“Well. Who’s to say how he felt about that forklift?” Kim asks dryly, earning him another round of laughter from everyone. 

When he glances over, Harry is watching him, his cheek dimpled and eyes bright.

Kim’s heart flutters and he stops trying to hold in his smile, looking down into his tonic. Thankfully, everyone picks up the conversation from there, continuing to share their most ridiculous stories until the song playing over the speakers crackles and changes over to an older song that gets Prue groaning.

“No, no—now they’re just gonna encourage people to do it!” She peers into the crowd before throwing up her hand in frustration. “See! Look! They’re already starting it!”

Kim frowns in confusion, following the line of her sight to see a group of people just outside the building giggling and starting what looks like the beginnings of a clumsy dance. They can’t seem to decide who to partner up with, though, leaving them all awkwardly dancing individually. Still, they don’t seem to mind, all of them collapsing into fits of laughter.

He raises his brows at Prue, but before he can ask, Harry jumps in for him, still watching the group. “I don’t get it. They look like they’re having fun.”

Prue makes a dissatisfied sound in the back of her throat and King explains, “Yeah, but they could be having _more_ fun.”

“Exactly!” Prue exclaims, shaking her head. “They’re half-assing their fun.”

“Are you sure you aren’t just angling to do the Shuffle yourself?” Judit asks, grinning conspiratorially and chuckling at the playful glare she gets in return. She finishes off her drink and sets it aside, holding out her hand to Prue. “I’m game if you are.”

Prue takes one look at her before giving her a puckish grin and slapping their hands together, both of them using the momentum from the other to stand. All the junior and patrol officers immediately begin scooting their tables into a wider circle as Trant and King push the sofa and coffee table to the side.

“Oh, god, can we please not do this again?” Jean whinges, dropping his head back against the couch as Mack and Chester do their best to move their sofa with him still on it. He looks very tired, suddenly.

“C’mon, Vic,” King coaxes, turning to lean forward eagerly into his space. “Don’t you want to show Kitsuragi how we do it here in Jamrock?”

Jean’s glower is hot, but before he can say anything, Kim cuts in.

“Show me how you do what?”

Prue looks up from straightening her trousers, a wicked grin on her face. “What d’you think? The Shuffle.”

Kim glances between everyone before saying quietly, “We may be thinking of two different things.”

“Wait—the Jamrock Shuffle is real? Kim didn’t make it up?”

Kim clicks his tongue at Harry’s accusation. “I didn’t say I made it up.”

Prue’s smile widens. “What, you thought we were talkin’ about that little nickname everyone thinks is so cute?” She shakes her head and helps push the other couch aside with Jean still on it, leaving a large circle of space in the middle of the group. “Nope. This is the _real_ Shuffle.”

As they watch, Judit and Prue grab hold of each other’s hands and begin to a much more vigorous version of the steps the people outside had attempted. It is a sight to behold; frenetic and almost dangerously fast, it is a dance that pushes and pulls between the partners, forcing them to trust each other implicitly. There are no leaders or followers in this dance—both partners must be willing to take the weight of the other, to support them through every flourish and swing. Especially when they somehow manage to stay composed as other officers join the circle in pairs, occasionally spinning away to swap partners before making their way back to each other.

Kim finds himself completely entranced, much in the way that he does when he sees the mechanisms working seamlessly together inside a big machine.

“It’s a _dance_ ,” Harry says, looking delighted at the performance in front of him. He is leaning far forward in his seat, eyes wide, taking in every jump and swing like they are steps he can memorise.

Jean sighs from where he is slouched low on the couch.

“‘Course it’s a dance!” Prue calls out breathlessly as they finish with one last twirling, laughing spin before collapsing into each other, red-faced and gasping. “Straight from Boogie Street!” She winks down at Kim. “Think you got it in you, Kitsuragi?”

Kim glances between her and the others still dancing merrily away in the circle, joined by yet more pairs. “Khm. I much prefer watching, but thank you for offering.”

“I’ll do it!” Harry jumps in like an excited puppy before his brows furrow and he adds quietly, “If anyone wants to.”

“I’ll take you for a test drive, Du Bois,” Prue agrees easily. “Can’t be worse than the last time.”

Harry pauses mid-stand before straightening slowly, looking worried. “Did I…do something last time?”

“No,” Judit says, then sighs at the look everyone else gives her. “Yes.” She wipes the sweat off of her forehead tiredly. “You were always doing something.”

“What did I do?”

Judit’s eyes dart between Prue and King and Jean before she shakes her head again, as though trying to shake the thoughts out of her head. “How about _I_ teach you the steps again, instead?”

“But if I did something, I don’t want to do it again because I—”

“You won’t,” Jean says suddenly, without venom. He says it like it’s just a fact. Harry meets Jean’s eyes and something passes between them too quick to put a name to before he turns back to Judit, brows curled.

“You really won’t,” she says softly, a hint of a smile in her voice. When Harry continues to hesitate, she simply reaches across the gap between them and takes his hands, pulling him onto the makeshift dance floor. 

Harry glances over his shoulder at Kim and he nods encouragingly.

The smile he gets in return is nervous, but excited.

As the song picks back up, though, Kim watches Harry focus on attempting to relearn the dance, listening to the things that Judit says to him, too quiet to hear this far away. They are joined by the majority of the remaining Wing C officers, the circle widening to accommodate, until it is just Kim and Jean who are still sitting it out. Several times they end up bumping heads because Harry won’t stop looking down at his feet or the other people dancing around them.

“Shouldn’t that be you up there?” Jean asks beside him when he chuckles at the sight of Harry stumbling over his feet and lighting up with laughter at his own blunder. 

Kim raises his brows at him, still smiling. “I could ask you the same.”

“I don’t dance.”

“Neither do I,” Kim says without missing a beat. Jean looks at him curiously, his hair falling so low over his forehead that it tickles his eyelashes. Kim has the urge to push it aside, just to see what Jean would do. “But Harry has a way of convincing people to join in anyway.”

“Same as always, then.”

Kim nods. “It’s difficult to refuse someone so enthusiastic.”

Jean grunts, his eyes sliding back to watch Harry, who has successfully managed to switch partners, but is now stepping all over King’s feet. A smile twitches at the corners of Jean’s mouth. 

“God knows what this team would be without it.”

“You’d still be a good team.”

“Oh, sure,” Jean agrees readily. “We’d be good at our jobs. We all worked our asses off to be good. But having someone as erratic as Harry leading you makes you think stupid enough to solve shit that wouldn’t get solved otherwise.”

Kim huffs out a laugh. “That’s certainly one way to put it.”

The two of them just watch Harry as he returns to Judit once more, both of them beaming as he remembers the moves that she favours. They begin to dance much more smoothly, their stumbles and half-steps easing into something familiar and fun. Kim can see their mouths move as they talk and he wonders what they’re saying.

“Last time he dragged us into doing this, it was Jude’s first week at the 41st.” 

Kim hums with curiosity at Jean’s sudden revelation and he obliges, continuing. 

“Her partner died, y’know,” he says rhetorically. Jean knows that they’ve talked, so Kim doesn’t feel the need to confirm it. “And Harry got one of his cases. But there weren’t any additions from her, so he went to the hospital to get her notes and he just—sat there and talked to her for _hours_. About nothing. Until she fell asleep.”

Jean’s eyes are trained on Harry, watching as his confidence grows in the dance.

“I was so pissed at the time because I thought he was doing the same shit he always did to women. So we fought and he fucked off and got high and I...” He trails off, the silence significant. “But when I went to apologise to Jude the next day, she told me that she’d put in the request to transfer to our team.”

He sighs.

“So she came to work with us, but of course Harry was still a fucking wreck. He’d already forgotten who she was by the time she started. And then when he invited her out for a drink as ‘an apology’, he ended up dragging us all into doing this stupid dance.” He gestures out to the happily dancing partners. “The thing is—it was clearly the right thing to do, ‘cause until he ruined it by raving about Dora and marriage and how Jude’s husband was taking advantage of her, she was actually happy.” He pauses before saying faintly, “Never knew how he did that. Read people’s minds.”

Kim watches him closely. “You know now, though.”

Jean is quiet for a few long moments before he sighs again and mumbles, “I wish I didn’t.”

“Is it so bad?” Kim asks, hoping he sounds as genuine as he means to be. “Surely you’ve known for a long time that Revachol is full of surprises. Harry’s skills are one of the least pressing of them, I’ve found.”

“I didn’t have to believe it before,” Jean says bitterly. “I just thought everyone was like that, but he was trying to be something special. Just more delusions.”

Kim ruminates on that before Harry’s words from weeks ago come back to him. Both of them sitting in the Kineema, Harry struggling to stay in the present as he remembers being treated by psychiatrists and ignored by Jean. “I suppose I can understand the reluctance. I assumed he was just suffering from delusions, too—at first. It can be difficult to accept things we have no logical explanation for.”

“No, you don’t—it’s not just me being _reluctant_ ,” Jean argues, sitting forward in his sudden vehemence. “Before—before _whatever_ happened to him in Martinaise—Harry would just say _anything_. He’d say the wildest shit; accuse people of being a ‘simulation’ or tell everyone that he was some kind of angel of death. He’d scare so many people without even stopping to think about it, but sometimes it was like he could actually _hear_ himself and he’d just stop. He’d stop and apologise, like he could hear exactly what everyone was thinking.” Jean makes a face. “How could I believe that he always knew what someone was thinking if he would still choose to do all that?”

Kim nods, suddenly understanding. “Easier to believe that the times he was right were just flukes, rather than something more.”

“Yeah. Something like that.” Jean nods, too. “I guess I didn’t want to be a guy who made excuses for someone if he was just a fucking asshole down to the core, y’know.”

“Well, if it’s any consolation to you, you’ve certainly never made any excuses about him since I’ve known you.”

Jean gives him a dry look, but there’s still a hint of a smile pulling at his lips. “Funny, Kitsuragi.”

“I try to be, sometimes.”

Jean looks back to Harry before glancing at Kim out of the corner of his eye. “It’s a good look on you.”

Kim blinks, studying Jean’s profile and getting very little. “What is?”

Jean licks his lips reflexively before his voice dips so low that Kim almost can’t hear it over the din of the dancers. “Being happy.”

It takes him a moment to process the words and what lies beneath them—the subtle acknowledgement that there is something between him and Harry—and even when he does, he still doesn’t know what to say in return.

_Tell him he looks good, too._

_Make him explain himself._

_Ask him to dance._

Now _that’s_ a thought, and he’s not sure where it came from. He hadn’t lied to Jean; despite Harry’s ability to convince him to dance when they’d first met, Kim generally does not. He doesn’t like putting himself in any position where he might draw unwanted attention, and he’s never had the best balance. So for him to consider doing a dance that seems to regularly include both front- and back-flips, he feels a bit like he’s lost his mind.

But still, it’s the thought that he latches onto when Jean watches everyone else having fun while sitting apart from them.

“Well. If I look good while making a fool of myself, then I suppose I should do everyone else a favour by joining in the dance.”

Jean snorts. “Well, it looks like Harry’s getting the hang of it already, so you’ll have a willing partner if you do.”

“I was thinking,” Kim says carefully, “that there might be another partner available.”

Jean’s head snaps over to Kim, their eyes meeting. 

“One that already knows the steps.”

Jean’s lips part and his throat works silently before he finally gets out, “There—there aren’t really steps. You—you just—mirror what your partner does.”

“Then dance with me, Jean,” Kim says softly. 

For a single moment, Jean looks like he’s going to refuse, his eyes darting over to the crowd. And then he looks back to Kim again and something flares behind his grey eyes, hungry and keen. He stands without another word, pushing the couch back with a stiff knee and holding a hand down to Kim.

Kim takes it without hesitation, allowing himself to be lifted to his feet before sliding their free hands together, too. He watches Jean glance down to their clasped hands before he clears his throat and says, “Just—follow my lead, alright? Until you get the feel for it.”

Kim nods and just like that, Jean starts to move.

Slow, at first. Just taking each step to the beat to feel out how well Kim can keep up. And then, when Kim manages to follow a more complicated twist, he picks up the pace. Bit by bit, he follows the same pattern. Repeating a move over and over with sharp, excited eyes until Kim can mimic it back at him with ease, as though it gives him a thrill when they move in unison. 

Kim can’t blame him; his own body feels as though it’s waking up with an energy that it’s never had before. The faster they move together, the harder his pulse beats in tandem with the music, until he can’t stop a joyous laugh from bursting out.

“If the goal was to make me look a fool,” he gasps after a particularly complicated move that Jean skillfully guides him through, “I’m not sure you’re going to succeed with this strategy.”

Jean’s smile is wide and open and the sight of it makes Kim’s heart skip. He’s always handsome, but with that smile, he’s devastating. Especially when he tugs at their joined hands, their bodies meeting once more, and murmurs,

“No one would ever mistake you for a fool, Kim.”

Kim lets out another breathless laugh, a smile of his own rising unbidden, but before he can speak, Jean continues with, “Ready to see how well you’ve got this?” and spins them away from each other straight into the hands of their new partners. 

Kim freezes for just a moment, but when he realises it’s Trant that’s grinning playfully in front of him, he relaxes into the dance again. Trant moves much slower than Jean, giving him plenty of time to learn how he likes to click shoes together with his partner with a flourish. Then comes Prue, who laughs with abandon and readily agrees when he asks to try a flip. He does it, but only barely, and so when he falls directly into Harry’s arms, his head is already spinning.

“Kim!” he cries with delight, abandoning the steps to simply wrap his arms around Kim’s middle and haul him into a twirl, burying his face against his neck. 

Kim can’t help but do the same, high with the energy of the dance and the feeling of Harry’s strong arms lifting him with ease.

“I thought you didn’t want to join,” Harry pulls back to say, beaming up at him with his cheeks rosy and his temples wet with sweat. They move seamlessly from the twirl straight into a dance much like he’d shared with Jean, only with more erratic shifts between as something new takes Harry’s fancy. 

“I didn’t know I was going to until I was already doing it,” he puffs out with a smile, tugging at Harry and weaving underneath their arms. Harry laughs as they pirouette together, alternating between pulling him right against his body and throwing in some disco moves that remind Kim of that first time in Martinaise. They lose track of the music until Harry glances around, a frown between his brows as he asks,

“But wait, if you’re out here, then where is Jean?”

And Kim only realises who they are about to trade off with in the moment before they do, Judit meeting his eyes over Harry’s shoulder as she dances with Jean.

Then both of them are letting go of the other and he watches with electric nerves as Jean and Harry turn unknowingly to each other before stopping dead.

Judit and Kim stand stiffly opposite each other as the rest of the group continues on, unaware.

Harry and Jean stare unsurely, backs rigid, hands held awkwardly at their sides. They both wear a look of trepidation, as if facing down a jump from a very high cliff. Kim wonders if he should just step between them and save them the trouble of figuring this out here, of all places, but then Harry’s expression shifts. 

Gentles. 

Jean draws in a long breath, but lets it out before the peak.

Harry sighs silently.

Both of them relax, as though they’re having a conversation that only they can hear.

Harry holds out his hand palm-up in the space between them.

Jean eyes his hand before looking back up at Harry’s face.

A ghost of a smile creeps into Harry’s eyes, crow’s feet crinkling at their edges.

Jean shakes his head loosely, but claps his hand into Harry’s, yanking him forward and scooping his other hand out of the air as he stumbles.

And just like that, they fall into their own dance, moving as though they’d never stopped at all. As though nothing could _ever_ stop them from moving like this—no amount of voices telling them it can’t work, no amnesia—not even the end of the world.

They dance like they’re one person.

Kim exhales his own held breath and feels as though he’s letting go of something deeper. He feels a light touch at his elbow and turns to see Judit smiling gently, offering her own hand, and together, they join the crowd once more.

For the rest of the night, as he dances and laughs and joins in an impromptu game of _pétanque_ , he feels a strange sense of giddiness. Like the only thing stopping him from floating off into the stars is the tether of his fellow lieutenants. The rare sound of Judit’s carefree giggles, the scratch of his name in Jean’s mouth, the touch of Harry’s hand against his back, lingering far longer than strictly appropriate. The bubbles in his chest rise up and up until they burst out—a smile here, a dry joke there, an Ace’s Low between the four of them when they secure a win. 

And at the end of the night, when everyone is ready to slouch off back home, half-carried by their partners, the bubbles settle in his stomach, small and fluttery and full of anticipation for something he isn’t quite sure of. He wonders for a moment if it’s because he expects the goodwill and cheer to suddenly disappear as soon as they’re out in the cold of the night, but everyone bids him easy farewells, the same as they do for anyone else. He supposes, after that, that it must be concern over how he acted with Jean that night; that he will think less of him for the flirtation. 

But then Jean sees Judit off with Trant and returns back to Kim and Harry, and he suddenly understands why he feels this way.

He doesn’t want the night to end.

And neither do they.

Shivery lightning crackles along his arms and zips down his legs as Jean glances between him and Harry, but he can’t think of the right way to ask for what he wants.

_And you promised yourself you wouldn’t ask for it, anyway._

He isn’t sure that he cares about that, anymore. Not when Jean’s eyes look like pools of quicksilver in the moonlight and Harry’s got his arm slung around Kim’s shoulders, his body furnace-hot. 

But he waits too long to find the words and so Jean just clears his throat and says, “Know it’s probably a crime when everyone’s sharing their food, but I’d kill for a shitty pie from the automat down the road right now.”

Harry’s laugh feels especially booming when his chest is half-pressed against Kim’s shoulder. “What a terrible idea. I’m game if you are, Kim.”

“That’s probably for the best. I’m not sure my stomach could handle the fried food so late at night,” he says after a moment of deliberation, and they head down through the streets until they reach the automat with its lights still glaring yellow and bright out into the night. As expected from the festivities still going en force, it is abandoned except for the three of them, which suits him fine, as he’s still buzzing with that excitement. Even as they take their pies—chicken and beef for Jean and Harry, respectively, while Kim opts for vegetable in the hopes that he’ll be less likely to get food poisoning from it—his hands are unsteady with it. He’s relieved when Jean leans back from the standing counter, his pie half-eaten already, and pats at his jeans, muttering,

“Know I still have a few with me…”

The familiar territory is a comfort for Kim as he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his cigarette case, tapping one out for each of them and handing them over without a word. Harry grunts out his thanks, mouth stuffed with pie, and sticks the cigarette behind one ear, while Jean nods and immediately strikes a match to light his.

“Cheers,” he says as he sighs out his first drag, smoke rushing towards the cracked window.

“No problem.” Kim lights his own and takes a long breath, savouring that first rush of nicotine. He grins over at Jean after a moment. “I’ll always prefer you smoke mine than those cheap filterless ones of yours.”

“I don’t smoke enough to pay for the good ones,” he bites back, though his eyes dance. They’ve had this same back-and-forth several times already, and it’s beginning to feel like a comedy routine, as it always makes Harry snort.

“Whatever you say, Lieutenant Pack-A-Day.”

Harry’s shoulders shake as he laughs with a mouth full of beef. 

Kim’s smile widens and Jean gives him one of his own, small and quietly happy.

He wonders what it would be like to see that smile on him every day.

_Satisfying. Right._

_After everything, this smile will change again, and neither of you will ever want to give it up._

Kim blinks, shaking off the odd thought, and Jean notices, clicking his tongue dismissively. “Don’t shake your head at me, Kitsuragi. Not all of us were born with the moral code of an Innocence necessary to smoke only one a day.”

Kim grunts, choosing not to correct his assumption. “My moral code, such as it is, is an amalgamation of my time in a Dolorian orphanage and learning from my own mistakes. Therefore, by those standards, you should be down to at least half a pack a day.” He makes a point of blowing his smoke towards Jean, but Harry gets caught in the crossfire.

“Kim,” he says through his food, “you made that bite taste like tabac.”

“Is that such a bad thing?” he asks, leaning his elbow onto the counter to raise a brow at Harry. 

Harry peers down at him and Kim can feel all his nerves lighting up with pleasure at the way his eyes dart across his face down to his lips. 

“I guess there are worse things to taste,” he says finally, turning back to take another bite.

Jean clears his throat.

Kim glances up, but the only indication of discomfort he can spot are the reddening tips of his ears. He wonders if it’s because he doesn’t want to think about Harry giving anyone else that look or because he’d like to see where it might go if he does.

Kim is surprised to find himself hoping for the latter.

But instead of imagining how red Jean might get if Kim crooks his finger into Harry’s turtleneck and pulls him in for a kiss, he decides to have mercy on all of them. 

“The point I was trying to make, anyway, is that it is not through any morals that I choose to abstain.”

“Why _do_ you do it, anyway?” Jean asks curiously. “Wouldn’t it be easier to just quit?”

Kim smiles. “Of course.”

“So why? Just want to see if you can?”

“Partly. It’s partly routine now, too. Something to signify the end of my day, even if I don’t get to eat.”

“Hey now,” Harry cuts in, swallowing his last bite. “Don’t make it seem like I haven’t been taking care of you. I _do_ make dinner at least half of the time.”

“You do,” Kim agrees. “But sometimes, when I come home very late, the last thing I want to eat is a pot full of mashed potatoes or a topping pie with so many vegetables on it that I can’t tell where the crust is to hold it.”

Harry laughs good-naturedly. “I’m still trying to remember everything I like to eat!”

“You always were into meat alternatives,” Jean says. “I never could figure out if you were bad at being vegan or if you were just curious about the taste.”

“Probably the latter, considering I’ve seen him make vegan pancakes and then wrap leftover mustard ham in them.”

“ _Ugh_.”

“It tasted pretty good, so unless you’ve tried it, you don’t know whether or not you’d like it,” Harry says defensively.

“I don’t need to _try_ it to know that it would taste ungodly,” Jean argues.

“It wasn’t bad, actually,” Kim adds, flaking off a bit of pastry and popping it into his mouth. Jean looks at him in disbelief and he shrugs. “I’ve somewhat learned to have a sense of adventure in the last two months.”

“ _Exactly_ ,” Harry jumps in excitedly. “Living with me is an _adventure_.”

“Better that than what I remember, I guess,” Jean mumbles before he tenses suddenly, as though hearing his own words. He looks away and takes another drag, his shoulders falling forward. “Sorry. Old habits.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Harry says with understanding. “It hasn’t been that long since I started trying again.”

“I just,” Jean begins, then pauses, frowning. He gathers himself and faces Harry and Kim again, face serious and chin forward. “I don’t want you to think I’m going to go back to how I was, either.”

“I know you aren’t, Jean,” Harry says quietly. “But I wouldn’t blame you even if you were.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Jean snaps. “If you talk like that, then you’ll never think it’s worth sticking to.”

“That’s not—” Harry attempts to argue, but the look that Jean gives him stops him. He sighs, reaching up for the cigarette and taking the lighter that Kim offers. “Yeah. Alright. Makes sense.”

“Good.” Jean gives Harry’s shoulder a squeeze as he breathes in, his cigarette glowing bright. “‘Cause it hasn’t gone unnoticed. Tonight—” He lets out a long trail of smoke. “Tonight was a lot different than before.”

Harry’s smile is sad around his cigarette. “I know.”

Jean’s eyes study Harry’s face for a long, silent moment, open and hopeful, and Kim wonders if he should look away, but he can’t bring himself to do it. 

“I thought you picked up those moves fast,” Jean says finally, barely loud enough to hear. When Harry chuckles, he glances away, clearing his throat. “Is that, ah...all you remembered?”

Harry just smiles wider.

And when a flush creeps up Jean’s neck, Kim stands no chance of turning away. It’s mesmerising, watching it climb higher and higher until his cheeks are stained pink and he has to both swallow and clear his throat again before he can speak.

“Well. Well, at least you’re still remembering stuff,” he mumbles, hiding his mouth behind his cigarette. When he looks up again, he’s smiling affectionately. “I know Jude appreciated getting to dance again. Getting to just have a normal night out like this. It’s been a long time for her.”

“Did Alice look after the twins tonight?”

Jean nods at Kim’s question, giving him a half-grimace. “First time looking after them all alone.”

“Ah, they weren’t so bad,” Harry argues. “We even got to play some games when we babysat.”

“They scammed you out of fifty reál.”

“It was their birthday! They didn’t want anything else!” 

Kim shakes his head as Jean snorts with laughter. 

“At least Mikael is easy enough to buy presents for,” Harry sighs. “Orbis games and wyrms and now…”

“Natural disasters?” Kim offers when Harry trails off, thinking.

“That’s one way to put it.”

“ _And_ how to prepare for them,” Jean adds, looking slightly disturbed. “ _Kids_.”

“I’m not sure if it’s all children who are like this or just the ones raised by our colleagues,” Kim ponders.

“Cuno was worse,” Harry says without hesitation. “Lilliene’s kids and Annette were alright, though.” 

“Those children at Le Royaume are also fairly well-behaved, considering,” Kim hums.

Harry frowns. “Maybe it really is something about being the kid of an RCM officer.”

“Well, what’s your excuse then?” Jean asks with a smirk. “You didn’t even have parents.”

“I had to work extra hard at getting into trouble,” Harry shoots back, grinning as Jean makes a face. He takes another slow drag, turning to lean back against the counter and look into the automat. “In all seriousness, I’m glad Judit enjoyed herself. After everything with her husband…”

“She deserved a break,” Kim says, thinking of the late nights with Judit, finding the right legal advice just in case her ex-husband tried to stop her from leaving with the children.

“Especially considering how these cases—”

“No,” Harry groans, shaking his head. “No work. No unsolvable deaths. No Moralintern breathing down our necks. No imminent war creeping over the horizon. I’m _tired_.”

Kim sighs.

“It doesn’t go away if you don’t look at it, Harry,” Jean says, but his eyes are also tired and sympathetic. “It’ll be there tomorrow morning, in fact.”

Harry makes a disgusted noise.

“Not going well, then?”

Kim shrugs a shoulder. “As well as can be expected for a cold case almost twenty years old. She’s led us all over the city. We’ve actually interviewed the person who was tape jockeying the warehouse tonight. I was wondering why the name was familiar.”

“She can’t be a real person,” Harry says obstinately. “She’s been too many things.”

“It isn’t so unusual to have a variety of skills.”

Harry just gives Kim a dull look.

“I’m not suggesting she’s like you, if that’s why you’re looking at me like that,” Kim says with a raised brow.

“What if she is, though?” Jean asks, grinning and leaning forward. “Even better: what if she’s your long-lost _daughter_?”

“Considering I would’ve been about ten when she was conceived, I think I can rule it out,” Harry laughs.

“Alright, then your _sister_ ,” Jean suggests, chuckling as well until Harry freezes, his eyes going distant. Jean looks over at Kim with worry before they jostle Harry on either side with gentle hands. “Hey, hey, I was just joking. Don’t start convincing yourself that this girl’s your sister, Harry.”

“No,” Harry says faintly, shaking his head, and then again, combing his fingers through his hair and loosening the tie holding it back. “No, she’s not—uh. Nevermind. Just—nevermind. I just got a strange feeling.”

“What kind of strange feeling?” Kim asks, brows furrowed.

“Just something that Inland—” Harry stops, glancing over at Jean.

Jean crooks his head, waiting for a moment before understanding dawns in his eyes and he says without question, “One of your voices.” A line appears between his brows before smoothing again. “Skills?”

“They’re—either,” Harry says, his voice hitching slightly. 

“So all those times when you’re…”

“Staring off into space?”

“I was going to say acting like you’ve fucking died without your body realising it, but sure.”

Harry nods, his lips twitching wryly. “Yeah, that’s them.”

Jean scrubs at his beard, looking tired. “All those years…”

“If it helps, I don’t think he’s always having life-changing revelations when he’s thinking very hard,” Kim says, giving Jean a sympathetic look. “Sometimes he’s just talking to them about the alphabet. Or whether or not he can get away with saying he’s six foot tall if he never takes off his shoes.”

“Hey!” Harry yelps. “I _am_ six foot tall.”

“Of course you are, Harry. When you wear your shoes.”

Jean barks out a laugh. “They must not always be right, then, if they tell you things like _that_.”

“I believe it depends on which one is giving him advice,” Kim posits. “Some of them are…”

“Idiots?”

“Less than reliable,” Kim finishes, to Harry’s delight. Jean watches them with an inscrutable look before gesturing vaguely and asking,

“So what _can_ they tell you?”

“Why? Something in particular you want to know?” Harry shoots back with a smirk before peering closer at Jean. “Or is it _someone_ you want to know?”

“Shut up, Harry,” Jean grumbles, but the flush returns to his cheeks, his eyes flicking over to Kim before turning to the ceiling.

Kim briefly considers allowing it to pass, but the bubbles are fluttering inside of him again and he can’t stop himself from saying in a dry voice, “My favourite colour is blue, I prefer staying up late to waking up early but because of our job, I can’t really afford to, and I enjoy long drives that take me to places I’ve never been before.”

As both Jean and Harry stare for a long moment, Kim winks.

Jean’s blush deepens.

“Wow,” Harry says with a growing smile. “I can’t believe you just _gave_ him all that when you made me work for it.”

“You could have just asked me any of those questions and I would have answered you,” Kim points out. “But you were more interested in knowing something that no one else knows.”

“Like what?” Jean asks suddenly, and Kim looks over with surprise to see him watching them with an intensity that gets his stomach clenching hard.

_‘I deny myself things that I want because it’s safer to expect less and not be disappointed than to crave more than I have.’_

Everyone already knows he does that.

_‘I’m homo-sexual.’_

It’s probably safe to assume that Jean already knows that.

_‘I’m attracted to two men that I definitely shouldn’t be if I want to have an easy work life.’_

Well. That’s certainly something that no one else knows. Not even Harry—though it’s likely that he’s guessed by now. If there’s anything his skills seem to be good at, it’s picking up the things that Kim hasn’t admitted to wanting, yet.

Kim stands under the attention of both of those men and carefully rubs out his cigarette, letting the anticipation wash over him.

_You said you wouldn’t. Not until Harry decides what he wants._

_What if you say something and it ruins their chance of happiness?_

_You’re supposed to be in love with Harry. If you really loved him, you would let him make his own decisions without your interference._

If he never tells him how he feels, then he can’t possibly make an informed choice.

But he spends too long thinking, and by the time he makes the decision, a tinny, mechanised bell plays inside the automat, sounding the hour. Jean looks over with wide eyes, swearing when he sees the time.

“Fuck, the _rail_ —” he looks back to both of them, clearly conflicted. “I was supposed to catch the rail, but…”

He trails off in a way that makes the unspoken words clear: he wants to stay.

Kim waits for Harry to tell him not to leave, but when he just studies Jean’s face, he knows _he_ , at least, has to try. As they follow him outside, he catches Jean by the sleeve and says, “If you want, we can walk back to the station and give you a ride home in the Kineema.”

For a moment, it seems as though Jean might agree, his body swaying towards them, but then he glances between them and takes a step back. “No, that’s—I’m alright. I can still catch it if I run.”

“But it’s really no trouble—”

“Ah, don’t bother trying to convince him, Kim,” Harry says, the humour in his voice belying the seriousness behind his eyes. “Mustang Vic’s got his heels dug in already.”

Kim raises his brows to ask him a silent question, but the only response he gets from him is a barely-shrugged shoulder and a tiny smile.

“Yeah, yeah, fuck you too, Harry,” Jean snarks without any real bite, already turning. He hesitates with one foot still pointed back, looking between them again as if waiting for them to say something.

Harry just watches him.

And so Jean just bids them a quiet goodnight and leaves them standing there in the glow of the automat.

“Harry,” Kim says as kindly as he can as they watch Jean make his way up through the thinning crowds towards the station, “if you were wondering when your opportunity with Jean might arrive, I have some good and some bad news for you.”

Harry huffs out what might be a laugh. “What’s the bad news?”

Kim shoots him a dull look. “That was your opportunity that you just let go by.”

Harry hums low in his chest. “And the good news?”

“You can still catch him if you hurry.”

“And if I don’t?”

Both of them watch as Jean reaches the end of the street.

Kim can’t be sure, with his eyes, but it almost looks as though he turns back to them for a second before finally disappearing around the corner.

“Then I’d ask you why you chose to let it pass by.” Kim watches the formless dark at the end of the street for a moment longer before turning to Harry.

Harry is already watching him, his eyes shining with the steady light from behind Kim.

He can see himself reflected in those eyes.

“I didn’t let an opportunity pass by, Kim,” he says softly. “There are still things that Jean’s working through. He doesn’t want what I want.”

“He wanted _you_ , Harry.”

“I know,” Harry says, his brows creasing for a moment before they ease into a smile. “But when were dancing, I remembered—”

Kim watches Harry fish for the right euphemism, and so he just sighs and offers, “Having sex with him?”

Harry’s cheeks go ruddy, but he doesn’t look away. “Uh—yeah. Sort of.”

“Sort of?”

Harry gestures a little helplessly. “It was a drunk thing. I can’t remember all of it, but I definitely remember _something_.”

Kim shakes his head minutely. “So—because you had sex before, you think he doesn’t want to, now? Talk me through it, please. Because from what I saw tonight...”

“It wasn’t just—sex,” Harry says suddenly, as though he was trying to hold it back but can’t anymore. He runs his hand through his hair and gives it a little tug at the back before dropping his arm heavily to his side. “Not for me, at least.” The look he gives Kim is such a mixture of confusion and regret that he feels himself immediately stiffen his back in preparation for rejection.

But when Harry finally admits, “I was in love with him, Kim,” it doesn’t feel as heart-wrenching as he’d imagined it might.

Maybe because when he says it, he’s still gazing at Kim as though he’d like to never stop.

And so there is still room in his lungs to say, “I think you might still be.”

Harry lets out a shaky sigh, as though Kim saying the words out loud brings him a sense of catharsis. “Maybe.” He draws closer to Kim, their breaths mingling in the space between them. “Maybe I am.”

Kim’s skin prickles.

“If you are,” he begins, his voice dipping low as the wind curls between them and sends a shiver down his spine that seems to urge him closer, “then why did you let him go?”

“Because,” Harry murmurs, holding his gaze as they both sway forward before holding themselves back, resisting the magnetic pull of their bodies. “He wants _you_ , too. And I don’t want to get in the way of that.” His eyes trail down to his lips. “I want you to be happy, Kim.”

Kim shivers at the rough catch of his name in Harry’s throat.

 _Make him say it again_.

“And you, Harry?” he asks, barely above a whisper. “What do you want?”

A visible shiver rolls through Harry, his hand coming to settle against Kim’s jaw, his thumb brushing his cheekbone. His eyes are half-lidded and smoldering with a heat that lights an answering fire in him, especially when he breathes out a trembling, 

“ _Kim_ …”

Without any more hesitation, Kim slides his hand into Harry’s hair and pulls him into a kiss, slow and soft.

 _Again_.

Harry’s hands are shaking as he wraps an arm around Kim’s waist, drawing them tight together as they fall back against the window of the automat, mouths parting hungrily. Their tongues roll together, both tasting of tabac and the sweetness of the night, and Kim’s head swims with giddy abandon. The feeling of Harry’s groan against his chest sends a hot flare of arousal through him as they kiss and he digs his fingers hard into his back until his leg slips between his thighs, pressing tight against his cock.

_More._

Kim grips Harry’s hair reflexively, his other hand sliding around to hold his hip as he savours the kiss for a moment longer. When he breaks away, gasping for breath, Harry’s mouth is right there again, drawing him back in as though he can’t bear to be apart. Kim lets out a helpless moan of his own, giving into his desire for as long as he can before turning his head to guide Harry to his neck.

Harry obliges without complaint, laving his tongue along his pulse and chasing it with his hot breath. It’s only when Harry sinks his teeth into the muscle between his shoulder and neck that Kim’s knees go too weak to keep supporting both of them, and he slaps his hand against the window to stop them from falling.

“Harry…” Kim moans into his ear, his fingers holding tight to his hip in a shocking display of willpower. He can barely speak, his throat is so tight with desire. He feels like he’s free-falling into something that he’s needed his whole life but never allowed himself to feel until now. “Is this what you want?”

“God— _yes_ , Kim, _yes_ —” Harry gasps, fitting their mouths together in another bruising kiss that leaves them both panting by the time he pulls away again.

“If this is what you want,” he says gruffly, holding his gaze with a look full of promise, “then let’s go home and get you to bed.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ;]
> 
> Next up: the night and morning after.
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/TellCosy)/[tumblr](https://tellcosy.tumblr.com)


	10. First Dance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry and Kim share the night together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **THIS CHAPTER IS ENTIRELY NSFW! EXPLICIT SEXUAL CONTENT AHEAD!**
> 
> Hiyaaa, decided I wanted to add the night as a separate chapter just in case anyone's wanting to skip the explicit stuff. If so, the plot will return next chapter! And if not, then enjoy this very sappy smut scene. <3
> 
> Happy early Valentines Day, everyone!

  
  


YOU — Lieutenant Kitsuragi has his tongue in your mouth.

PERCEPTION (Taste) — When you first started kissing on the way home—in the streets and on the stairs and against the door—he still tasted of stale pie and tabac. By now, the only taste left is purely Kim. 

CONCEPTUALIZATION — And it’s the most addictive thing you’ve ever tasted. The synapses in your brain connected to forming addiction—the ragged holes desperate to be filled—are firing all at once, popping like kernels of corn inside a hot pan. 

INTERFACING — He’s rewiring your brain, one touch at a time. 

ANIMA — You’ll be lucky to get out of this with any part of you that doesn’t crave him.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY — He’s got his fucking hand on your cock, Harry, and all you can think about is his *tongue*? 

CONCEPTUALIZATION — He’s the most beautiful poem of motion; a song of desire—

ELECTROCHEMISTRY — BEND HIM OVER THE TABLE AND DRIVE YOUR DICK INTO HIS ASS LIKE YOU DROVE YOUR MOTORCARRIAGE INTO THE SEA.

CONCEPTUALIZATION — ...Okay.

VOLITION — Normally I’d suggest you ignore the babbling idiot, but he has a point. 

EMPATHY — But maybe a little more romantic?

RESILIENCE — Being in love does not have to be mutually exclusive with fucking him hard.

HABITUS — The two of you were *made for this*. 

SAVOIR-FAIRE — He moves in tandem with you like you’re still dancing.

INTERFACING — Because to him, this is still your dance. He’s known since day one how to make your engine purr and is only giving himself the permission now.

SUGGESTION — Finally allowing you to be more than just partners.

ESPRIT DE CORPS — He’s always been your partner. He *knows* you, and you know him.

ENDURANCE — And besides, whether or not you want to be romantic, *he’s* the one who pulled you on top of him as soon as you shut the door.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT — You know what he wants, champ. He’s got a fistful of your dick and his tongue down your throat and doesn’t seem ready to stop anytime soon. He wants you to take him. Right here, right now.

AUTHORITY — Romance doesn’t even factor into this equation. It’s about power and who has it, and right now, the lieutenant literally has you by the balls. Don’t let him gain the upper hand or you’ll end up crawling after him like you did Dora.

ANIMA — Don’t be stupid, Harry. You *know* that what you have with Kim isn’t the same. Even if you can’t remember the details, you’ve seen the letter. You know what she wanted from you—EXPECTED from you. Don’t let your past colour how you treat Kim. 

INLAND EMPIRE — But you can’t make the same mistakes you made with her, you need to— 

ELECTROCHEMISTRY — If all of you could kindly *fuck off*, I’m trying to get his *dick wet*. 

ANIMA — It isn’t as *simple* as that, he needs to know what this means to him.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY — Rip off his jacket and bite him on the neck again. 

YOU — You act on instinct, pushing Kim’s cardigan off his shoulders and letting it fall to the floor as you dip down to the base of his neck and sink your teeth into the soft muscle there.

KIM KITSURAGI — “ _Harry_ —” Kim’s gasp is sudden and spilling over with arousal, his palm massaging hard against your dick while the other clings to your hair. “Fuck— _yes_ —”

ANIMA — Oh. Maybe it is that simple.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY — I’ve been thinking about this since the moment you spotted him in that cafeteria. None of you—and I mean *none* of you—are going to stop him from making this man come.

KIM KITSURAGI — Kim tilts his head to the side, giving you more room to kiss along the curve of his collarbone while his fingers are busy working your trousers open. As soon as the buttons pop, he shoves them down impatiently and barely waits for you to kick free before slipping his hand into your underwear and taking hold of your cock.

ENDURANCE — Oh, sweet fucking Dolores, you might just come with that touch alone if you aren’t careful, brother.

YOU — “Oh, _God—Kim_ —” You choke on the words, hips jutting forward into Kim’s grip before you can stop yourself. “I’m—god, you’re so—

ELECTROCHEMISTRY — Get the rest of your clothes off *now*. No more fucking around—it’s time to *do this*.

KIM KITSURAGI — Kim’s smile is wide and wicked. “Yes? I’m so what?” He is relentlessly slow and skillful in his strokes, even when he shifts to the other hand to let you strip his shirt and trousers off of him, as well. 

YOU — “So fucking hot,” you gasp out, reaching for the hem of your shirt.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT — Are you sure?

KIM KITSURAGI — Kim’s laugh is deep, pleased at your blunt honesty. 

YOU — You pause in the motion to take off your shirt, feeling suddenly awkward. 

ELECTROCHEMISTRY — I’m sorry, are we suddenly in a championship game of basketball? Shut the hell up and let him fuck, coach.

YOU — You follow through with the motion after another beat of hesitation, tossing your shirt away. Thankfully, when you take hold of Kim’s hips, he doesn’t seem to notice how nervous you are, too distracted by you suckling at his earlobe.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT — I’m just saying, you aren’t exactly in the best shape, even if you have been working out more. Shouldn’t you have maybe waited to take your clothes off until you get in the dark?

KIM KITSURAGI — His hand finally lets up off your cock to jump to your arms, clutching tight as you blow hot air against his ear and dig your fingers roughly into the meat of his ass. The noise he lets out is so close to a growl that you can’t help but lean into him, knees weak.

“Bedroom. Now.”

COMPOSURE — It doesn’t make any sense to be shy of your body now, of all times. He has seen you mostly naked countless times before.

HALF LIGHT — No, he’s right. This is *different*.

LOGIC — This isn’t just sleeping in the same room. This is *sex*. You’re meant to look attractive for your partner.

ANIMA — But Kim is quite literally already having sex with him. How does that make sense?

ELECTROCHEMISTRY — Harry, listen to me very carefully: I know they’re all very distracting right now, but I need you to stay focused. Take deep breaths and think about Kim’s cock inside your ass, alright?

AUTHORITY — No, no—that’s not how you want to do this! He’ll start thinking he’s the one in control if you just let him take you like that.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY — Of course he’ll think that, because he *is* in control, and you fucking LOVE it. So why don’t you listen to what he said and *take him to the bedroom*?

YOU — You breathe in against Kim’s neck, tracing his pulse with your nose. “Is that what you want?” you tease, smiling when he gives you another snarl of frustration.

KIM KITSURAGI — “Very funny, Harry.”

YOU — “Mm, I’m just curious,” you hum against his jaw, kissing a path over to his mouth as you grip harder into his ass. You crowd him against the wall until he has no choice but to lift himself higher to make room for you, and you push him further, still, purposely flexing under his hands as you hoist him up.

KIM KITSURAGI — His breath catches audibly.

YOU — You lean back just enough to lock eyes, your faces only inches apart. You can feel him pant softly, his ears going red-hot as you rumble, “Tell me what you want, Kim.”

ELECTROCHEMISTRY — Good, good—this is all good shit. Keep going. He’s so hot for you right now— 

HABITUS — It might be wise to make sure you have condoms first, though. Before you continue. You wouldn’t want to get too far and find out that you’ve misplaced them.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY — Are you fucking kidding me? You want him to get dressed again and go *shopping*?

KIM KITSURAGI — Kim’s eyes burn into yours, hungry. “Can’t you just read me like you always do?”

VOLITION — There are definitely condoms in the bedside table. You saw them only a few days ago.

HALF LIGHT — Unless Kim’s been bringing someone back here— 

RESILIENCE — Not that you would care, considering he *obviously* wants you, too.

HALF LIGHT — But what if he doesn’t want you like you want him? What if you’re just a distraction or—or a *pity fuck*.

YOU — You grin crookedly. “The skills are all a little busy right now.” When understanding dawns on him and he licks his lips reflexively, you squeeze him tighter. “Besides, I’d rather hear it from you.”

KIM KITSURAGI — Kim’s gaze dances across your face before settling on your mouth. The tremble as he exhales is only noticeable because it ghosts across you, raising goosebumps on your exposed skin.

“Yes, Harry,” he breathes, “I want you.”

YOU — Your eyes fall shut and you drink in the feeling, letting it fuel the fire inside of you. 

HALF LIGHT — What if he’s lying, though? He’d lie to make you feel better.

KIM KITSURAGI — “So—bedroom. _Now_.”

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT — Fuck, who cares if he’s lying. He’s practically begging you to show him what you can do. 

YOU — So you show him. Without warning, you haul him up and hold him tight to you with an arm around his back and thigh.

KIM KITSURAGI — The moan he gives you is short and broken, legs wrapping tight around your hips. His mouth devours yours as you carry him through to the bedroom, muscles straining at the added weight, and his fingers dig into them as though he’d love to sink his teeth in, instead.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY — Fuck, yeah, fuck YEAH HARRY, IT’S HAPPENING, YOU’RE GONNA ROCK HIS FUCKING WORLD, YOU’RE GONNA—

HAND/EYE COORDINATION — YOU’RE GONNA FUCK UP DROPPING HIM ON THE BED AND RUIN THE MOOD.

YOU — The intensity of the thought startles you so much as you go to place Kim on your bed that you do, in fact, fuck it up. You end up misjudging the size of it and grunt in surprise as you slam him down and fumble off the side, landing in a heap on the floor. 

And there you lay in stunned silence, your erection poking a tent over the swell of your stomach like a flag of surrender.

KIM KITSURAGI — Kim leans into view over the side of the bed, looking both amused and concerned.

“Enjoying your nap?”

YOU — You blink slowly up at him, looking as pathetic as you can manage.

KIM KITSURAGI — He snorts with laughter, his eyes crinkling with humour.

YOU — “It’s not my fault,” is all you can think to say, though a smile is already blooming behind your chest at the sound of his laughter.

KIM KITSURAGI — “Oh yes,” he chuckles, “the bed is definitely to blame for being too small.”

YOU — “That’s *exactly* what’s to blame!” you exclaim, scrambling to your feet and frowning down at the separate beds. A thought occurs to you, but before you can even formulate a plan, Kim groans.

KIM KITSURAGI — “No—Harry, *no*. Right now?”

YOU — “I’m afraid so, Kim,” you say grimly, moving to the bedside tables to shift them out of the way before crouching down beside Kim’s bed.

KIM KITSURAGI — “Harry, if you put your back out of place trying to do this—”

YOU — “I won’t put my back out.”

ENDURANCE — You might put your back out.

YOU — “Probably.”

KIM KITSURAGI — He sighs, but still settles back to watch, used to tolerating your whims by this point. 

YOU — Something about that thought warms you straight to your core.

SUGGESTION — But that’s not necessarily a good thing.

LOGIC — It could also be interpreted as him being used to you wasting his time.

RESILIENCE — I don’t think Kim feels like you waste his time. He seems to enjoy these whims of yours, even if they prolong the wait.

HALF LIGHT— That’s just another way to say you’ve wasted his time.

??? — You’re always making excuses, Harry. Just say you don’t want it and go sleep on the couch.

YOU — You blink.

> **1.- What? What does *that* mean?**

VOLITION — It wasn’t one of us. 

INLAND EMPIRE — No, not one of us. A memory. And not a pleasant one. Better just to forget about it.

> 1.- Isn’t it better to see all of it—even the bad?
> 
> **2.- You’re right. Better to just forget some things.**

VOLITION — If it’s important, it will come back to you in time. Focus on what’s in front of you. Focus on Kim.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT — He’s right. If you’re going to do this, you’d better do it properly. Tighten your core and be sure to pull with your legs and not your back.

YOU — Realising that you’ve been staring down at the bed for too long, you set to work dragging it towards the middle of the room, trying to shake off the strange feeling hanging over you now.

COMPOSURE — But you can’t, can you? There’s something about that voice that unsettles you, which means one thing.

ANIMA — Her. It’s her voice. 

INLAND EMPIRE — The *memory* of it. 

PAIN THRESHOLD — It still hurts the same.

COMPOSURE — It still makes your lungs tight as you try your best not to think on those words and what they meant between you.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT — Just do the other bed now and it’ll be fine. 

ELECTROCHEMISTRY — No. No, it won’t. You lost your boner and you ruined the mood with this. You’ll be lucky if he even lets you sleep here tonight.

YOU — You can’t seem to steady your hands, even when they hold tight to the bed frame.

KIM KITSURAGI — “Harry, you really don’t have to do this, you know.” Kim’s voice is quiet, the humour muted now.

YOU — You can’t look at him as you jam the beds together, wincing when they don’t line up perfectly. “Yes, I do,” you insist, struggling to ignore the way your mind circles around the inch of difference between the edges of the beds. “It’s—gotta be perfect, Kim. I can’t just do this half-assed like everything else. I want it to be perfect for you. I don’t—”

You drag the bedside table back into place before adjusting it immediately, making a sound of disgust when you can’t get it just right. 

“I don’t want to fuck anything up. Not this time; not with you.”

You go to move it again— 

KIM KITSURAGI — “Harry.” 

Kim’s voice is deep and husky, drawing your attention like a hook behind your sternum. When you turn to where he lies back in the large bed you’ve cobbled together, he takes your hand in his and pulls you slowly down over him, holding his palm directly over your racing heart.

His pinkie tickles at the small hairs at your chest and you shiver.

His pupils are blown wide and his lips are pink from your rough treatment.

YOU — Your world narrows, this close to him. You feel your heartbeat steady under his hands, his attention. You realise, then, that you were close to tipping into panic, and even now, you are afraid.

VOLITION — What are you so afraid of, Harry?

> 1.- I’m afraid I’m not going to be good for Kim. 
> 
> 2.- I’m afraid this is going to ruin the relationship we already have.
> 
> 3.- I’m afraid that he doesn’t feel the same way as I do.
> 
> 4.- I’m afraid of what will happen if he does feel the same way.
> 
> 5.- I’m afraid if I don’t do this perfectly, he’ll leave me all alone again.
> 
> **6.- [Conduit - Godly 16] Remember *why* you’re afraid.**

**CHECK SUCCESS**

CONDUIT TO ANOTHER YOU — As you fall into Kim’s steady gaze, an umbral memory passes through you. A dream of another life spanning beyond a decade, blisteringly happy at times and screamingly miserable at others. But mostly—mostly the pale in between. The mundane. The weight of the world as it stands, carried on your shoulders and then hers, when you couldn’t hold under the pressure.

And how different, the moments like this were—knelt desperately between her legs, coaxed in a frenzy to stiffness but empty inside. Head filled with thoughts of the bodies you’d stood over, trying to decide why someone had chosen to take the life out of them. The grinning corpses of the men you’d put into caskets. The endless piles of filth festering inside the womb of the city, suckling at her brick and mortar breast until she bled. So—many—horrors— 

Yet you would still enter her. Rut yourself deep inside her until you’d proven yourself useful. Proven to her that you were still a man—still her superstar cocaine cock that could make her come screaming your name.

Until the days that you couldn’t anymore. Until the drink took it away from you and part of you was *happy*. Happy you didn’t have to perform anymore, even if it was just another way you’d disappointed her. Even if it drove her into someone else’s bed. 

Your soul might have been scraped raw at the loss, but at least when you jerked off alone, you didn’t have to didn’t have to stare into anyone’s eyes and see nothing reflected back at you.

And now, as you share breath with Kim, you see the excited flush at his throat and chest. You see the fullness of his lips, parted softly, inviting you back inside. You see the shift of his muscles underneath you. The tousled hair falling across his forehead. The dusting of dark hair on his chest, trailing down his stomach and disappearing beneath his boxers. The freckles on his hip that form almost a perfect circle. The creases of the smile starting deep inside him. 

You look into those amber eyes...

KIM KITSURAGI — “I’m not going anywhere, Harry.”

CONDUIT — ...and all you see is you.

YOU — You breathe in the scent of him and different synapses fire, flooding your body with a nesting familiarity, a quiet possessiveness, and exhale out his name.

He shivers in response.

And so you say it again. And *again*. The new pathways build through you with each whisper, each stamp of him on your soul, the sense of him filling every space in your head until suddenly— 

All is quiet.

Your ears—inner and outer—ring with the sudden cessation of the cacophony of voices, but when they settle, you realise that you know exactly what you want, and waste no time in taking it. Kim’s mouth meets yours in the space between you, fitting perfectly together. His lips are soft, but firmly insistent. He lets you set the pace, but tells you with each nip at your bottom lip that he wants more. 

You give it to him. 

You lower yourself on top of him until you’re both entwined—one of Kim’s legs stretching beside yours while the other hooks around your hip. You kiss him deeper, nudging his head back with a hand behind his neck and he obliges, meeting your enthusiasm with a rough grip of your hair that sends a yank of lightning to your dick. 

But the sound he makes inside your mouth—guttural and animalistic—is what gets you hard and gasping with need once more. Especially when he does it again to pull you away, nuzzling against your beard down to your neck and audibly breathing you in.

The sound you make in return is at once helpless and unbidden. A submission of control over to his skillful fingers and mouth as he gives your neck an open kiss, tasting you. 

“I can’t tell you how many times I’ve thought about doing this,” he murmurs against your skin, breath and tongue hot as it explores you. You swallow, feeling your throat catch at this angle, and hiss in a stuttering lungful of air as he mouths at the hollow. 

“So many nights...I wanted to climb into bed with you.” He kisses up the other side of your neck excruciatingly slow, pressing into each one like he’s trying to leave an impression of his lips on you. “Wanted to get you inside me.” His mouth finds your ear and you whimper, heat blooming behind your chest at the shocking, sudden pleasure it gives you. When he speaks again, it’s barely above a whisper. “Wanted to take _you_.”

“ _Fuck_ , Kim—I’ve wanted that, too,” you choke out, losing your control and turning to take him in another hungry kiss. He kisses you back just as eagerly, rolling his hips up into yours and forcing a moan out of both of you as your cocks grind together. 

You break away only when your lungs scream for air, and look down into his half-lidded eyes, his glasses askew on his face. Your hands are trembling, adrenaline and joy mixing inside your veins to create a cocktail of euphoria. Everywhere you touch him feels like both a livewire and the ground, electric but comforting.

“I’ve wanted you for so long,” you exhale, in awe of the depth of your affection, moving one of your hands to hold his face. Your heart skips when he leans into your touch, seeking more. “I’ve wanted you every night since that night in Martinaise. I wanted you, then, too. Hell, I’ve wanted you since the moment I stumbled down those stairs the first day we met.” 

Your chest aches with the truth waiting further down, and when he just gazes up at you, eyes shining with something raw and unfiltered and _so_ dangerous, you can’t help but say it. “I’ve wanted you my whole life. I just hadn’t found you, yet.”

You think, for a moment, that Kim will laugh at you. That the slow smile he gives you is only to soften the blow that is sure to come. But even when he _does_ laugh, it’s breathless—affected—overwhelmed. 

He hears the words that are carried underneath: _I love you_.

And when he says quietly back, “Considering I had to come back to that hostel three times before you decided to show up, I think it’s fair to say _I_ found _you_ ,” you think you can hear the words he isn’t saying, either.

_I love you, too_.

One day, both of you will say them. Someday soon. But tonight, when every nerve is alight with the newness, the _possibility_ —this is enough. This silent acknowledgement that you’ve given yourselves over to it, whatever else may happen.

And the kiss you share after is like a promise.

_I’m not going anywhere_.

You move slower than before; unhurried now, but deeply passionate. You kiss like you could survive on it, alone—like you can’t believe you ever lived without it. And you can’t, really, because the sound Kim makes in the back of his throat when you bear down into him, shifting so that your thighs work his legs open, feels like a gift. The salt of his sweat on your tongue brings something primal out of you, and when you let out a growl of his name, he gives you a full-body shudder, arching into your mouth.

His hands leave fire on your skin where they explore, from scraping against your scalp to digging into the muscles of your arms and back and around again, fingertips trailing through your chest hair and down to the curve where your stomach meets your hips. You groan with the burn of anticipation as he teases along the waist of your underwear, but when you shift back and hook your fingers inside his boxers and lift his legs to slide them off, he returns the favour without hesitation.

And suddenly, with both of you kneeling there on the bed, nothing between you but the cold air and rumpled blankets, you’re hit with a wave of nerves. The flush on his collarbone is nothing compared to the heat gathered in his cock, and even though you know it’s probably rude to stare, you can’t look away. 

Because it’s Kim’s.

And because yours is—

But the thought shuts down the moment that Kim pulls your bodies flush together once more, nerves forgotten in the touch of your skin against his. How you feel about your body pales at the evidence of his arousal, straining and hot against you. You tangle together in every way you can, tongues rough and greedy, thighs hooking against the other’s, arms wrapped tight. When you both thrust in rhythm, your hands clamp to his hips as his dig into your sides, bruising in their intensity. 

You do it again. Harder. Faster. Both of you begin to lose control, hips snapping forward, lost in the friction of your cocks and the intimacy of your kisses.

It’s so _good_. 

So good, in fact, that the only thing that stops both of you from just rutting yourselves to oblivion is Kim’s choked out, “Harry—if you want me—inside of you tonight, then we—we have to—”

You groan at the reminder, burying your face against him as you hold yourself perfectly still, staving off the wave of your imminent orgasm. Kim’s chest heaves beneath you with the effort it takes him to calm back down, and you feel a little better about your own frenzy. The scent of him surrounds you, though, and even when you finally back away from that edge, you don’t leave the cliffs.

“What if I want you to come, though?” you ask, nuzzling your nose against the soft hairs and running the flat of your tongue against his stomach, blowing softly on them to make him shiver.

He grunts, cupping your face in a hand and angling your chin up to make you look at him. “Behave, or I really will end up—” His words end in a weak whimper as you slide down his body inch by inch, leaving a trail of wet kisses while holding his gaze. You stroke up and down his thighs, scraping your nails lightly against his skin just to see the way his lashes flutter. 

“You’ll what, Kim?” you tease, knowing by the dazed look in his eyes and the twitch of his hips that he can hear the rumble of your voice against his cock from where it’s trapped between you. You get the sudden image of him jerking off onto your chest and face, but put the thought aside for another time. 

If there’s another time.

There _has_ to be another time. There’s no way you’ll be able to go back to what you were before after this. Right?

But no one answers, of course—it’s just you, right now. You can feel the Conduit still thrumming away, sorting the skills into little switchboard slots in your head, so you know that you could connect to any of them if you really wanted to, but…

Maybe—for this one night—you’re better off alone. Figuring things out as they come instead of checking everything first. 

Some things are better done messy and imperfect.

Which is probably good for you, considering you have no idea if you’ve ever sucked dick before in your life. You’ve practiced on the dildo you bought weeks ago, but there’s a difference between hard plastic and an erection. 

That’s not about to stop you, though; not when Kim’s eyes are dark with desire as he watches you settle between his legs. Not when he bites his lip to keep quiet as you hold his cock and stroke the length of it, marvelling at how similar and yet completely foreign it feels to do so. And _especially_ not when you watch his head fall back and his throat bob with a heavy swallow as you sink your mouth down around him. His legs open and you press forward to hook them over your shoulders, cupping his ass to encourage him deeper. 

“ _Oh_ , _god—yes—”_

You moan and swallow around him as he thrusts down your throat, mostly successful at forcing down the urge to gag as you bob along his length. Your eyes still water and you have to pop off to breathe for a moment, but as long as you can still see Kim’s face contort with pleasure that _you’re_ giving him, you don’t care at all. You could stay here forever, knelt between his thighs, drowning in the taste of him, feeling him squirm and hold tight to your hair.

And maybe you would have if Kim didn’t suddenly rasp out, “ _Fuck_ —” and hold your head still with stiff, but still gentle hands, looking down at you with his cheeks flushed and breath coming fast. You lock eyes once more in a battle of wills, his cock heavy on your tongue and your own throbbing against the bed. You desperately want to test his grip on you—push him that little bit further—just a little more—you can feel how close he is and you _know_ he would taste so sweet down your throat— 

But you give in to him, waiting as he gets himself back from the edge.

And then he obliterates your composure by surging forward into a rough, biting kiss and rolling you onto your back, positioning himself between your legs. When you shudder with need underneath him, though, he breaks away from the kiss and sits up onto his knees and elbows to peer down at you, thumb idly wiping away the tears that had tracked down your face. You hold your hand over his, threading your fingers together and turning to place the ghost of a kiss against his thumb.

His smile comes slow and adoring, his voice soft in the warm dark. 

“Harry.”

“Yeah?”

“Are you…” He pauses for a long moment, his hair falling over his forehead as he crooks his head. “Are you sure about this?

“What d’you mean, _am I sure_?” you ask wryly, canting your hips to remind him of just how hard you are.

“No—” he inhales sharply, jerking down into you for just a moment before shaking his head, as though trying to convince himself to stay focused. “No, I mean— _this_. This position. Do you really want me on top? It will take a little while to get you prepped if this is your first time, and I really don’t mind—”

“It isn’t my first time,” you interrupt him, feeling as though the words have been waiting to explode out of you.

His eyebrows shoot up high on his forehead.

“You and Jean?”

“Oh—uh. No, I don’t think so?”

You search through the vague suggestion of a memory that came back to you earlier—the scratch of your beards together, the shared breath, the rough, frantic clawing at your skin. The whisper of your name as you kneel on a bed too small for the both of you. The feeling of your hand against him and the shaken groan he makes in response.

The aching hole in your heart, knowing that he doesn’t love you the way you love him.

Not particularly something you want to be thinking about right now.

“No. I don’t think we actually meant to—”

You stop, swallowing past your dry throat, and Kim’s expression softens with understanding. He bends to kiss you and you can’t help but cling to him, trying to squash the little fires of hope and shame that burn inside you with equal destruction. He pulls away before you can get too excited again, though he leaves tiny, lingering kisses in his wake as he asks,

“Then when did you…?”

You hum and arch into him, running your hand along his arm and up to the back of his head, fingertips brushing against the buzzed hair there. You can feel him smile into your kiss.

“Figured some things out,” you say against his mouth, smiling back coquettishly. “After our night together in Martinaise.”

“Some things, hm?”

“Mmhm. Just prostate things.” You grin wider at the sudden intensity of the interest behind Kim’s eyes. 

“Found everything alright?”

“Exactly where I left it.”

“And did you…?”

When Kim trails off a little breathlessly, you raise your eyebrows.

“Khm. Did you like it?”

His voice is silky and low, revving your libido into overdrive and all you want in that moment is to feel his body against yours again.

You mouth gently at his bottom lip, pulling it between yours and flicking your tongue along its length before murmuring, “I’d like it better if it was you inside me.” 

Kim groans deep in his throat, allowing the teasing for only a second before he angles you into a searing kiss, pushing you down into the bed. You’re so wrapped up in the insistence of his kiss that you don’t even notice him reaching over to the bedside table and pulling out a bottle of lube until he’s clicking it open. 

He huffs out a laugh when he feels your cock jerk with anticipation against him.

“Must have been good, if the sound of a bottle opening can get your attention like that.”

“It’s not the bottle,” you say faintly, glancing down at his hands as he warms the lube. You shift underneath him, freeing your legs enough to hitch them up higher, pulse pounding hard at the sight of your biggest fantasy coming to life in front of you. Part of you can’t believe it, even when he gives you a look of question with his fingers held just against your overheated skin. 

“It’s you, Kim.” You lick your lips and nod, urging him to continue, and he obliges, his long fingers rubbing a circle around you as he watches your face with feverish intent. “I’ve dreamt about this—so many times,” you admit in a daze, shifting again to get your arms under your thighs, lifting your knees higher and spreading yourself for him. 

He hums with appreciation, adding another finger to his strokes and saying gruffly, “Tell me.”

“It—” You dig your fingertips into yourself reflexively as he teases at your ass, sliding overtop but not entering you. “It always starts with us here. At home.” 

“Mm, what are we doing?” he asks casually, as though he isn’t cupping your balls with each upwards stroke.

“Making dinner,” you say, grinning. 

“Erotic.”

You clear your throat, your face burning. You try to look away, but he just follows your line of sight, holds your gaze, and guides you back without even having to touch you. 

Your heart skips.

“For me,” you whisper, “it _is_.”

Kim glances down at your lips for a fraction of a second before adding a little pressure to his strokes, getting a hiss from between your teeth.

You can’t help but feel like it’s a reward for telling him. And so you find your mouth opening before you’ve even told it to, ready to give him more of what he wants. 

“For me—the thought of being with you like that—” You shiver, suddenly feeling like you’re peeling back your ribs and exposing your heart to him. “It’s perfect. Like we’ve been together for years and we’re—we’re happy. To just—” You try to find the right words, but all you can think of is, “To just _live_. To make dinner. To sit beside each other and know that it’s alright not to talk if we don’t have the energy.”

Kim doesn’t say anything, but his breath fans across your neck, a little ragged. His fingertips tug you softly apart, but just for a moment before returning to massaging. You take a long, deep breath through your nose, letting it out as you say,

“And in my dreams, we always go to bed together. You climb under the blankets behind me and—” Your words catch in your throat as Kim holds a fingertip against your loosening muscle, but you manage to free them when he doesn’t continue. “And—you kiss my neck. So—so soft that I can barely— _nn_!” 

Kim’s lip twitches at the sound you make in the back of your throat when his finger slowly pushes past the resistance to enter you. It takes you several moments to stop clenching around him, but he seems happy to wait you out, holding completely still.

When you finally relax into the feeling, he flicks his tongue out to wet his lips and ask, “You barely what?”

The deep gravel in his voice makes you want to tell him to hurry up and fuck you already, but part of you is eager to continue at this pace. To make it last as long as possible. To make sure you can take him as hard and fast as you want when it happens.

You don’t take much convincing that that option sounds much better.

“Notice. I barely notice it,” you say, trying to stay focused on talking rather than the feeling of him now slipping in and out of you, his knuckles brushing against your sensitive muscle.

“The finest of the 41st, not noticing his partner kissing him on the neck?”

The way he says partner does not evoke a feeling of half-brotherly camaraderie, but rather deep affection. Part of you doesn’t dare to believe that you’re hearing it right, but for now, you let yourself feel it. You let yourself see that he returns your feelings. 

“I’m usually too distracted by the fact that you’ve wrapped your arms around me, pulling me against your chest,” you explain breathlessly, legs trembling with the effort it takes not to push down onto his fingers when he slips in a second. Your head falls back and you grunt, “ _Ah—fuck_ —”

“Look at me, Harry.”

Your eyes snap open again, finding his, and you have to pull your lips between your teeth to hold back the moan that is clawing at your throat as he stretches you.

“Tell me what I do to you.”

Your mouth falls open and you fail to hold back the stuttering groan as you say, “You—do this—you push me onto my stomach and lay over me and jack me off as you— _mmnn_ — _Kim_!” White-hot pleasure blooms from deep inside you as Kim curls his fingers, brushing against your prostate, and your hips jerk hard. “God, Kim—again— _please_ —” 

“Is that all I do?” Kim asks, angling his wrist to scissor his fingers as he drags back out of you before thrusting in once more. “Jack you off?”

“No—no, you—” You dissolve into another moan, your whole body on fire at the sound. You feel like no matter how hard you try to hold them in, he just opens you up again. “You— _fuck_ —me—just like this—just like—”

“Just like this?” His voice is thick with arousal and he begins to piston into you in earnest, adding another finger to stretch you out. When you just buck onto his hand with a gasp, losing your grip on your thighs to get the leverage against the bed, his lips crash onto yours, his tongue pushing into your mouth. 

You clutch at his back as he works you expertly, drawing out each sound like he’s trying to tune you to the precise key he wants to hear. When he breaks away, it’s only enough to press his forehead into yours and repeat, “Just like this, Harry?”

“ _Kim_ — _please_ —please, just—”

“Please what?” 

You feel that dark, ancient thing inside you snap to life with rapture at the bestial growl in his voice and you snarl back,

“ _Fuck_ me, _Lieutenant_.”

Kim’s eyes flare dangerously at the title and in one smooth motion, he pulls out of you, rips open the condom, and rolls it over his cock. Adrenaline pulses wildly through your veins as he barely pauses to line himself up before he sinks into you, both of you choking out a groan that echoes in the other. Your ass twinges with the unfamiliar sensation, but when Kim falls forward to take you in another sloppy, artless kiss, the pain quickly transforms into pleasure. Every tiny rock of his hips as he pushes that little bit further into you lights up your whole body, nerves singing under his touch. 

It feels like an eternity between that first breach of your muscle and the moment he finally hilts inside of you, and by the time he reaches that point, both of you are panting and sweat-slick. Your legs quiver, one heel dug into the sheets while the other hangs in the air, propped up by Kim’s arm hooked against your knee. Your cock twitches between your bodies, left neglected in your need to ground yourself to Kim, one hand behind his head and the other clutched in his and pinned to the bed. 

When he starts to move properly, though, he maintains that same slowness—that deliberation in each thrust. He studies you with unwavering focus, relentless in the steady pace and pound of your prostate despite your attempt to egg him on, until he finally teases something almost desperate out of you. A part of you that begs to be taken and taken care of with equal drive, and trusts him to give you exactly that.

Then—and only then—does he let out a guttural sigh and pick up his pace just the slightest bit, as though the sight of you wrecked and needy under him is too much even for his indomitable will. 

“More— _more_ , Kim—I can take it,” you babble, grinding down onto Kim’s cock, seeking any kind of relief as his rhythm stutters at your words. You know he’s trying to slow down—make it last longer—but all you want is for him to ride you hard and fast. “ _Please_ —feels so _good_ —so good—”

And by the smouldering look that passes over him, you know that’s exactly what he wants, too.

But still, he tries to hold himself back, gliding out slow and steady before sinking back down, again and again. 

“Kim— _Kim_ , _please_ , you feel so—so fucking perfect—please, just—” You let out a low whine as he drives his cock into you, the bed creaking under the rough abandon. “Harder— _harder_ —need to feel you come—”

“ _Oh_ , _god_ ,” Kim grunts out suddenly, hips snapping forward as though he can’t help himself, and you chase after that pleasure like a dog with a quarry.

“That’s right, that’s it,” you gasp out encouragingly, rocking in time with him as his rhythm breaks further. “More— _fuck, yes—_ don’t stop _—don’t_ _stop—_ ”

When his eyes start getting a distant, glazed look, his panting breaths growing ragged with desperation, your heartbeat thunders in your ears and you can feel the edge approaching quickly. 

“ _Ohh, fuck—_ Kim, I’m _so close_ — _I’m_ — _so_ —”

Then Kim lets your leg fall, reaching between you to wrap his fingers around your cock and all it takes is a few long, tight strokes from root to tip for you to tumble suddenly over it, coming so hard that a moaning sob rips out of you. Your whole existence narrows to the fireworks exploding behind your eyes as he wrings out every extra bit of ecstasy he can before his cock hammers into you, all finesse thrown aside in the race to his finish—

“Harry— _Harry_ —”

“ _Come for me_ , Kim, come inside me, _please_ — “

—before he chokes on your name, body quaking with the intensity of his orgasm and he stutters out bullet-fire gasps into your mouth as you kiss him through it, groaning at the feel of him flexing inside of you. You both ride it out as long as you can, circling your hips together just to prolong the pleasure, but soon, all you can do is collapse into each other and bask in the feeling, gulping in deep breaths.

“Oh, my _god_ ,” you exclaim as you stare up at the ceiling, your body loose and relaxed. A tiny laugh trembles out of you, vague in your reverie. “Oh, my god, Kim.”

Kim’s quiet, exhausted grunt is all the agreement you need to lean over and pull him into another kiss.

“We’re _definitely_ doing this again,” you state without question, residual euphoria bubbling up through your words. When Kim just slumps back onto the bed and throws his arm over his eyes, though, a tiny seed of doubt plants inside of you, and you clear your throat, combing your hand through your hair. “Uh—I mean. Right? You—uh—” 

“Yes, Harry,” Kim interrupts you, sighing with satisfaction and draping his arm above his head to give you a slow grin. “We’re going to do this again.” He reaches up to take a fistful of your hair and pull you down over him once more. “And again,” he whispers against your mouth, kissing you sweetly. “And again.” 

The promise in his words paints an answering one within you, a partner in joy.

“For as long as you want.”

Your lungs expand, filling with the breath he gives you, glowing with his warmth. And in that moment you know with a terrifying, beautiful, devastating certainty that you will never stop loving him.

Not in a week, a month, or a year. Not even after you’ve finally let out your last gasp of this city’s blood, finally ready to be enveloped by her Pale arms.

“What if I never stop wanting you?” you whisper back, your voice stolen in wonder.

Kim holds your face tenderly, as though he can see the enormity of your revelation shining from your eyes.

And he smiles.

“Then you’ll always have me.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: Sunrise, Parabellum.
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/TellCosy)/[tumblr](https://tellcosy.tumblr.com)


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